What may be said about the ancient dance
In spiral done amidst the runed stone
With feet and hair unbound, deep, deep in trance
Whilst hooded priests their timeless scripts intone?
What may be said to one who hath not smelt
The reek of steaming soil that ring within
Who at the lichen’d altar hath not knelt
Of undressed earth against the undressed skin
Or streaming wind which blows through streaming hair
And cools the ardor of the heated spin
Unto exhaustion’s edge, for it is there
Instructions in the Mysteries begin?
Druidic circle! From each seeker hid
Until unto its confines we are bid
