The circle will die in the dying of the year.
One will return in the blooming of spring-
A vine around an axe-haft winding.
The circle will fall to the ingrate Huntsman,
Who shoots not from need, but fear.
The grove will wither in the midst of the fire,
Though water flows through the winter chill.
Though the leaves fall, the tree will remain.
Though the circle dies, it will be again.
Mortal hands cannot stay the Lady's desire.