I NEVER wholly feel that summer is high, However green the trees, or loud the birds, However movelessly eye-winking herds Stand in field ponds, or under large trees lie, Till I do climb all cultured pastures by, That hedged by hedgerows studiously fretted trim, Smile like a lady's face with lace laced prim, And on some moor or hill that seeks the sky Lonely and nakedly,--utterly lie down, And feel the sunshine throbbing on body and limb, My drowsy brain in pleasant drunkenness swim, Each rising thought sink back and dreamily drown, Smiles creep o'er my face, and smother my lips, and cloy, Each muscle sink to itself, and separately enjoy.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."