Rite of Pan
The glade in the wood is alive with the scent
Of mosses and bracken and briar;
But through it all like a thread of mystic silk
Is the scent from the cauldron fire.
Candles glow round the Circle's edge,
On censer and cords and knife;
As thirteen meet hand in hand,
In celebration of all life.
They dance their dance in mystic moves,
As only they know how,
And through them runs
The power that proves,
That right in the here and now;
The Old Way is the right Way,
Has been since the dawn of man,
And so beneath the Moon's soft ray,
They rejoice in the Great God Pan.
--From Rhiannon Ryall's West Country Wicca