Beneath the Moon I slept as it rose full.
It was Midsummer’s Eve, and I was young;
Unformed, untutored, but I felt its pull.
In a dream, that night, an ancient tale was sung:
A Goddess who upon occasion sought
Her long-dead lover; her unfettered might
Disguised in mortal form, her spell so wrought
That men must long for her to spend the night.
Each time she came among men, only one
Could she select, one man to try and test.
If he should prove unworthy ere the sun,
His lot was death, his heart cold in his chest.
The story told, I saw her, tall and fair
Beneath the full moon on a nearby hill.
Her robes were white, her gaze was hard to bear.
Upon her hand a white bird sat, so still.
She sent it flying out on thunder wings,
Its eyes dark pools of bottomless desire.
I woke, and saw the moon, a shining spring
Of icy light to set my heart afire.
[This is a true account of a dream I had, sleeping outside on a Midsummer Night many years ago. At the time, I was not aware of this potent Archetype.]