The Voice of the Mother

My breath is on the morning and my smile is summer. From my hands the birds of the air take their food. The mild ox is my friend, the wolf trots by my friendly side: at my voice the daisy peeps from her cave and the nettle couches his lance.

The rose arrays herself in innocence, scattering abroad her sweetness with the dew, and the oak tree laughs to me in the air.

The lambs follow my footsteps, they crop my bounty in the meadows and are not thwarted: the weary cling to my bosom everlasting.

Through me proceed all actions and all deeds, through me voices come to teach and aid, and from me cometh the Divine Promise and the Breath from afar laden with goodness

Olivia Robertson
Ordination of a Priestess, p. 8-9, undated