On the Hill of the Dead - Reid

ON THE HILL OF THE DEAD
By John Reid (1800s-1900s)

There is a narrow pathway familiar to my feet,
That crowns a bank of sadness and forms a silent street;

The green moss lies upon it, so seldom is it trod,
Save when the living use it to leave their dead with God.

I love that silent pathway, where only footprints fall
Of those whose love is faithful beyond the grave’s recall;

And there I often linger and watch the setting sun
Light up the home that waits me when my shor day is done,

And sometimes idly wonder if when I come to stay,
Any will come anigh me to break the long, still day.

I shall be dead and know not, but if I knew it now,
The death-dew might not gather so coldly on my brow:

Still I would live, for, living, the dead are with me yet,
Their life in mine up-gathered till I their love forget.

If God’s above, I pray not that He my soul shall save,
But that He keep His arms close-wrapt about this little grave:

It is the spot most precious on all His earth to me,
Where now my heart lies buried, where soon my bones shall be.

The old cathedral’s shadow comes creeping up the hill,
Uniting those who worship and those who wait His will;

And night enwraps the living, and night enwraps the dead,—
A short sleep, a long sleep, and who shall raise the head?

---

From Ballads and Poems by Members of the Glasgow Ballad Club, 1898

Frightened Path - Brown

The Frightened Path

circa 1920
by Abbie Farwell Brown (1871-1927)

The wood grew very quiet
As the road made a sudden turn;
Then a wavering, furtive path crept out
From the tangled briar and fern.

“Where does it lead?” I asked the child;
She shivered and shook her head.
“It doesn’t lead to any place,
It is running away!” she said.

“It is running away on tiptoe
Through the untrodden grass,
To join the cheerful highroad,
Where real, live people pass.

“It runs from a heap of ruins
Where a home stood in old days;
But nothing living goes there now,
And—Nothing Living stays!”

From Heart of New England, 1920

When Hallowe'en was creepy

Trick or Treat - Life Magazine

When Hallowe'en was creepy

Vintage Postcard of the week...

Vintage Postcard of the week...

Fact

KNOTTING SPELL

By the light of candle
Clear your mind, focus on the purpose of the spell
Whisper the words to yourself -- believe
Tie as follows and speak the words of power.

By the knot of one the spell's begun
1-------------------------------------------------

By the knot of two it cometh true
-------------------------------------------------2

By the knot of three it shall be
-------------------------3------------------------

By the knot of four it's strengthened more
------------4-------------------------------------

By the knot of five the spell shall thrive
-------------------------------------5------------

By the knot of six this spell I fix
------6-------------------------------------------

By the knot of seven the stars of heaven
-------------------------------------------7------

By the knot of eight the hand of fate
---8----------------------------------------------

By the knot of nine what's done is mine
----------------------------------------------9---

Crone - Wyley

CRONE

circa 1998
By Graham Wyley

Approach without fear,
you who know me in your heart,
for I speak to you
with the voices of the winds
and the shoreline
is the hem of my robe.

I am the breath of hope
which is born in the East,
the Maiden,
the new morning,
the promise of Spring.

Mine is the power
which burns in the South,
the Mother,
the midday warmth,
the blessings of Summer.

I will draw you to me
as the day fades in the West,
the Wise woman, the healer,
the mourner of the waning year.

And when the bitter wind
blows from the North,
bidding life withdraw,
to rest, to dream,
I beckon you as Crone,
as the Dark Mother,
the seed of life preserved
in the bare Earth,
from which you have been born
and will be born again.

© Graham Wyley
Illustrated Guide to Witchcraft
© Illustration - Stephanie Smith - Crone

from La Belle Dame sans Merci - Keats

from La Belle Dame sans Merci

By John Keats (1795-1821)

Oh what can ail thee knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful -- a fairy's child
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.