The Hunt (The Descent)
Sheets of mist fall from a clear sky,
To weave her shining skirt.
The trail of a fleeing star bends,
To fashion her bow of silver.
Trees, long and strong, draw up,
To fletch her quiver of arrows.
The moon descends from its perch,
To light her line of pursuit.
She comes from her throne,
High on the Olympic peak;
All hail Artemis, chaste Artemis:
Goddess of the midnight hunt.