The Maiden, decked in purple flowers,
Dances, chants, her final hours;
For when the shadow of the moon
Cast by Knife rock in the gloom
Does touch the polished grinding stone,
All will know the time is shown:
To pierce her with the Oat Stalk knife
To bring the plant God back to life.
The singing mounts in celebration
The Maiden shows no hesitation;
Honored, feted, filled with pride
She dances as the Oat God’s bride;
A nymph amid the blowing mist,
A crumpled oat stalk in her fist.
Her hair is oaten like her cloak;
Her supple limbs gleam in the smoke;
On her head an oaten crown
Formed of oat stalks woven round;
What bride upon her wedding night
Steps so sure with foot so light?
What joy blooms there upon her check;
What rapture as she twists and leaps’
The moon will summon as a bell
There’s magic in …