Earth's Answer

Earth raised up her head

From the darkness dread and drear,

Her light fled,

Stony, dread,

And her locks covered with grey despair.

'Prisoned on watery shore,

Starry jealousy does keep my den

Cold and hoar;

Weeping o're,

I hear the father of the ancient men.

'Selfish father of men!

Cruel, jealous, selfish fear!

Can delight,

Chained in night,

The virgins of youth and morning bear?

'Does spring hide its joy,

When buds and blossoms grow?

Does the sower

Sow by night,

Or the plowman in darkness plough?

'Break this heavy chain,

That does freeze my bones around!

Selfish, vain,

Eternal bane,

That free love with bondage bound.'

William Blake

March

"The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one! 

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Plowboy is whooping-anon-anon:

There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

The rain is over and gone!"

- William Wordsworth -

March: An Ode

"Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell, 

and the splendor of winter had passed out of sight,

The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger 

than dreams that fulfill us in sleep with delight;

The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops 

and branches that glittered and swayed

Such wonders and glories of blossom like snow 

or of frost that outlightens all flowers till it fade

That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land, 

nor the night than the day, nor the day than the night,

Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring: 

such mirth had the madness and might in thee made,

March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms

that enkindle the season they smite."

lgernon C. Swinburne

Feast of Rhiannon

On this day in Ireland and Wales, the annual Feast of Rhiannon is celebrated in honor of Rhiannon, an old Welsh Goddess of the earth, fertility, horses and birds, who also has links to the Underworld. She is often depicted riding through Wales on a beautiful white horse. She is very prominent in the Mabinogion. Rhiannon is the enchanting fairy princess who rode so swiftly that no horseman could catch her, loved and chose to marry a mortal king of Wales. As a horse goddess, Rhiannon must have been considered extremely important; horses were precious to the Celts. 

In Her most famous tale, Pwyll, the ruler of Dyfed, saw a beauiful woman on a white horse, richly clad in a garment of gold, riding across the countryside. He is instantly smitten and sends his messengers to to find out who this woman was... but no matter how fast they ride, they cannot catch up with Her...even though Her horse appears to be trotting at a leisurely pace. The next time he sees Her, he fetches a horse and rides off after Her, but he has the same result. Finally, he calls out to Her, and She stops.  It turns out that She has been promised to another man, but wanted Pwyll to save Her. Their love for each other becomes a part of legend.

They marry and Rhiannon delivers a son, and on the night of his birth, some women are assigned to keep watch over him. At some point during the night, they fall asleep, and the baby is kidnapped.  The attendants  are frightened that they might be blamed, so they kill a puppy and smear its blood all over Rhiannon in order to make it seem as if She killed Her own child. Rhiannon is then punished in the following way. She has to wait by the horseblock at the fortress gate, greet every person coming to the palace, tell them of her crime, and then carry the visitors into the court on Her back. She is sentenced to do this every day for seven years. Symbollically, She is made to be a horse carrying a burden.

While Rhiannon is serving out her sentence, Her baby is found. After the fourth year, a farmer and his wife arrive with their foster son, who had mysteriously appeared at the childless couples doorstep...the very same night that his favorite mare had borne a colt and disappeared. The couple decided to keep the child and raise him as if he were their own Eventually,  they realize that their child is actually the lost child of Pwyll and Rhiannon  and return him back to the palace. The tale ends with the son, Pryderi growing up and becoming ruler of Dyfed after the death of his father.

And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England's mountains green?

And was the holy Lamb of God

On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here

Among these dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!

Bring me my arrows of desire!

Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!

Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

Till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land.

William Blake

Lore of the Ash

Like the oak, the ash was an object of high veneration with the Celts and Germans, but especially with the Scandinavian races in whose religious myths this tree took a prominent part. The Norse valued the sacred ash as the symbol of the universe which connects Heaven, Earth, and Hell, and has three roots--one of which leads to the home of the gods; one to the abode of the giants; and the other to the regions of darkness and cold. Under each root is a spring and each spring is sacred. 

Its magic prevents drowning and it was often used by the Welsh and Irish for the frames and oars of their boats. Ash was also one of the Druids' seven sacred trees and the third letter in their tree alphabet. The Druidical wand of the Celts was made of ash, while in Odin's own Runic alphabet all the letters were formed from ash twigs.  It is  said that tools with handles of ash are more productive than tools with handles of other wood; hence, its wood was used for the traditional handle of the besom broom.

In British folklore, the ash was credited with a range of protective and healing properties, and we find many references to the Ash tree, but in particular as associated with the Welsh magician god, Gwyddion, who carries an ash wand, a symbol of healing and especially transformation and empowerment in matters of destiny. 

Ash trees are believed to provide protection from fairies, who are said to be unable to harm anyone standing in the shadow of an ash tree. Put ashberries in a baby's crib to prevent the child from being traded for a changeling by an evil fairy.  Ash talismans can be worn as protective amulets. 

An ancient Norse legend claims that the first man, Ask, was created from the branches of an ash tree. The same tradition says the first woman, Embla, was created from an elm: 

According to the tale,  one day Odin, the father of the gods,  and his two brothers, Hojner and Loder found two trees--an ash and an elm--while they were walking by the sea. They transformed them into the shape of humans and created the first man and woman.  Odin gave them the breath of life, Hojner gave them feeling, and Loder gave them blood and the image of the gods. And, it was their responsibility to look after the plants and the animals.  

All human beings, it is said in Norse mythology, are descended from Ask and Embla, the first woman.

The Old Ash Tree

Thou beautiful Ash! thou art lowly laid,

And my eyes shall hail no more

From afar thy cool and refreshing shade,

When the toilsome journey's o'er.

The winged and the wandering tribes of air

A home 'mid thy foliage found,

But thy graceful boughs, all broken and bare,

The wild winds are scattering round.

The storm-demon sent up his loudest shout

When he levelled his bolt at thee,

When thy massy trunk and thy branches stout

Were riven by the blast, old tree!

It has bowed to the dust thy stately form,

Which for many an age defied

The rush and the roar of the midnight storm,

When it swept through thy branches wide.

I have gazed on thee with a fond delight

In childhood's happier day,

And watched the moonbeams of a summer night

Through thy quivering branches play.

I have gathered the ivy wreaths that bound

Thy old fantastic roots,

And wove the wild flowers that blossomed round

With spring's first tender shoots.

And when youth with its glowing visions came,

Thou wert still my favourite seat;

And the ardent dreams of future fame

Were formed at thy hoary feet.

Farewell--farewell--the wintry wind

Has waged unsparing war on thee,

And only pictured on my mind

Remains thy form, time-honoured tree!

-Susanna Moodie-