As the wheel is turned and the web is spun, 

How many names has the Horned One? Great Amoun from the shadowy clime 

Of mighty Khem in the long-lost time. 

Goatfoot Pan from the sunlit hills

Of Hellas, where the panpipe thrills

It’s melody through the leafy grove,

Where the satyrs dance and the centaurs rove.

Then from the pines of the snow-clad north

See Odin’s hunt go galloping forth,

On midnight wind that wildly shrieks

Over the barren mountain peaks.

In greenwood hiding the fairy folk,

Glory of Britain, the mighty oak

Shadows a form among the fern,

Shelters the cloaked and antlered Herne.

Through the heat of the forests noon,

Or by the ray of the rising moon,

Faintly echos His horn a-calling –

The veil between the worlds is falling.

Janicot of the heath remote

And the merry field of the Sabbat goat,

Where at midnight black the bonfires blaze

And dancers whirl as the piper plays. 

Faring far from the ages deep

Where the magical art arose from sleep,

And a nameless God with an antlered head

Loosed on the wall of the cave of dread,

The secret shrine where the dawn-men came 

To grave Him there by a glimmering flame,

Many the Horns of Honour bore

Down the centuries gone before.

As the wheel is turned and the web is spun,

How many names has the Horned One?

By Doreen Valiente 

May, 1984