Pale mother, we are piglets to your sow,
Fawns to your doe, foals to your mare, babies
At your breast, mere acorns to your great trees,
Small calves hungry, nursing, beneath your cow.
Every spring we again bend to plow
The earth for the seed, offerings to please
You in the planting, that we harvest these
Blessings in autumn, what you will allow.
Every morning you bring us the dawn;
At night protect lovers who have ill fate
From the tragedy otherwise brought on.
Elf-woman, white goddess, accept this plate
In thanks for all you provide; we have drawn
Strength and joy from you, only you can sate.
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