In broken light neath stars embrace,
Amid grass and stone see the old god’s face,
In hoary trunk of twisted tree, there is the one who is three.
Old in hand and heart and bone, voiceless whispers his final tone.
Once the green man of spring was he, singing, laughing running free.
Bud and blossom and then to fruit, at summers height and solstice night.
Oaken king he took the crown and brought the gift of Awen down.
Then winters king he took his turn, lean high hunter, mighty Herne.
Though his children call to him no more, still he sleeps in glade and forest floor.
An’ lo on night when moon shines bright, the horn it sounds and all hide from his sight
Forth the hunt to ride the sky, never fear only join or die.
Cauldron calls yet in olden hall, calling us come, ere the land at last must fall.