White Hills Poem by Jerome Brooke

High, over the sea, stands our Lady,
With hair of gold.
On hills of pure silver, hard driven,
By gales, ever bold.

Our Lady of Wolves, soft and kind,
Dance with us, brave one.
Run, leader of hunters, cruel and swift,
Slay her, the waiting deer.

Stars of dark night, save the white Lady,
Lead her to deer.
Dance with her, Our Lady of Wolves,
Do not see fear.