Quest for Camelon

Quick, quiet is the snow on a low hill,
So is winter wind under the low stars.
My well draws under whispered charm until
The circle, cold & grave, it can unmar.

Swift & sweet is the gray dawn’s careful rose,
As sudden sun upon the giant cloud.
My wood is waiting, and its druid knows
Some antique secret underneath the shroud.

Grave and good is the dying, drying oak,
As is the path to the top of the mont.
Though shaded altar there was ever broke,

The water is still pure beneath the font.
Trace, lady bright, the shining symbol true
For you are clear and clean, as is the blue.