The shadowy woods present an ominous face,
Leafless hands on withered branches, driven by the wind,
Beat against the black clouds that fill the sky,
Obscuring the fiery orb and its blazing beams.
Isn’t this the home of evil fiends, of wights and thieves?
But Saint Evroul has wrought a mighty transformation. A refugee
From the Frankish court, now a hermit of these woods,
Eking out a life on scanty fare in his mud-branch hut.
. . .
The rest is at https://www.newenglishreview.org/articles/the-light-within-the-gloomy-woods/.
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Holy Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!
Anathema to the Union!
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