O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car. He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheathed In ribbonened steel; I dare not lift mine eyes, For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose 1000 skins cling To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and in his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.
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 . . . ."