A crown of flame azaleas and goldenrod rests
upon Her hair, dark and glinting in the light
of morning. She who brings the sunlight is robed
in the light of a thousand stars, and She is the white light
of beginnings and of holy death.

Each golden coruscation of sunbeam against fog names Her Khrysalakatos, each flash
of the arrows which cut as sun-fire burns,
arrows which glow just as bright as the moon-glowing shafts
of Her brother’s bow,
each twang of the golden bowstring calls Her Khrysênios.