High On The Mount of Healing Herbs

High on that highest of hills,
there, where herbs irrigated
with honey-streams hum with buzz
of bees who pollen-pick the best
of flowers, stone-carved pillars
ground that greatest of cathedrals,
rose-petal arched with stained glass
glowing the golden gleam of light,
Roomy seats round the regal chapel,
far above the fields of folk,
She holds court with her hall-flocked throng
on throne of ivory-bone and madrone,
madrigals sung in the soul-healing seidh,
the fair folk flying to and fro, to harvest
the herbs that whole-make souls
lost, and bring them bless.
There, eternal, Love reigns full,
and full, her free hand, I so seek true.