A partial dedication

Green sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir
Will celebrate the Mountain Mother,
And every song-bird shout awhile for her;
But I am gifted, even in November
Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense
Of her nakedly worn magnificence
I forget cruelty and betrayal,
Careless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

– Robert Graves, The White Goddess

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