Oh Zandreya, of verdant grace,Whose whispers ride the sylvan air,In dappled light and ivy's trace,Your touch is felt, so soft, so fair. The ancient trees bow at your name,Their roots entwined in sacred trust,Their voices echo, low and tame,A hymn of earth, of love, of dust. To be worthy of your gentle hand,To walk where silver brooklets run,To know the language of the land,And praise the rising of the sun. Not with steel nor word of might,But in the hush where blossoms grow,In steps that leave the earth so light,And kindness sown where rivers flow. Let me be the falling leaf,The quiet hush of dawn anew,The healer's touch, the balm of grief,To be, Oh Goddess, worthy of you.