The harvest sleeps in furrowed soil,
The fields grow still, the mists roil
To silver veils on meadow and tree,
As winter claims the land we see.

The leaves fall softly, gold to brown,
And twilight lays its mantle down.
Yet in the dark, beneath the cold,
Lie seeds of hope not yet grown old.

Oh Nerþum, Mother of the ground,
Receive the gifts the year has found.
Let earth lie fallow, deep and still,
Resting beneath the winter’s will.

Though flowerbeds freeze and rivers slow,
Beneath the soil, life waits to grow.
In your embrace, let weary things
Find peace before the breath of spring.

And Ēostre, bright one, though you roam
Where southern skies have become your home,
Your light is never truly gone,
Nor lost the promise of the dawn.

Across the world your footsteps shine,
While Sunne follows her golden line.
We wait beneath the northern night,
Trusting your path will bring back light.

Oh Sunne, whose golden chariot flies,
Still turn your face through winter skies.
Though shorter days diminish your flame,
Your faithful course remains the same.

When morning breaks on frost-bound ground,
Your quiet strength can still be found.
No night, however deep or long,
Can silence light’s returning song.

And Mōna, keeper of the night,
Pour silver calm on darkened sight.
Through lengthening hours, let wisdom grow,
As pale stars crown the world below.

Teach us that darkness need not mean
That hope has vanished, unseen.
For even when the skies are bare,
A gentle light is always there.

Brave Tīw, who paid the price of right,
Who held to truth through fear and night,
Grant us the courage to choose our way,
To speak with honour, act with grace.

When old roads fail and new ones call,
Give us the strength to risk the fall.
Let justice guide the steps we take,
And let our choices mend, not break.

And Wōden, wanderer, wise and strange,
Who knows the cost of sacrifice and change,
Walk with us where the paths divide,
When doubt and longing dwell inside.

Let wisdom come not free of pain,
But through the lessons we retain.
And when the future hides from view,
Give us the sight to seek what’s true.

Frīg, whose care holds hearth and home,
Let none we love feel lost or alone.
Keep warmth alive where cold winds blow,
And help the bonds between us grow.

Bless those who labour, those who care,
The quiet love that fills the air.
May home be more than walls and flame:
A place where all are loved the same.

And Þunor, thunderer, strong and bold,
Rouse sleeping hearts against the cold.
Let storms sweep clean what must depart,
Make room for hope within the heart.

Where fear has settled, break its hold
Where courage falters, make us bold.
Let change be not a thing we dread,
But fertile ground where dreams are spread.

For Winterfylleð marks no end,
But turns the wheel around again.
The barley’s gathered, the fields lie bare,
Yet life persists through the frigid air.

The old year fades, the new draws near,
And change is written in the turning year.
What we release, we need not mourn
From endings, new beginnings are born.

So let the rain fall, cold and deep,
Let woodland, field and garden sleep.
Let frost draw patterns on window  panes,
And cleanse the earth with winter rain.

We need not know what lies ahead,
Nor fear the roads on which we tread.
For hope is not the absence of night,
But faith that darkness yields to light.

And if our lives should change their course,
If new roads call with quiet force,
May we have wisdom to understand
What to release and what to command.

May we find peace in what we leave,
And trust the things we still believe.
May those we love walk by our side,
As we meet change with hearts open wide.

So hail the gods, and hail the earth,
Hail the dark that cradles birth.
Hail the harvest, now laid to rest,
Hail the hope that stirs in the breast.
Hail the hearth, the moon, the flame,
The turning wheel that stays the same

As Winterfylleð draws the veil,
May courage rise and hope prevail.
For winter is not the death of spring,
Nor silence the end of songs we sing.

Beneath the frost, new roots take hold;
Within the dark, new dreams unfold.
And though the path ahead may bend,
The turning wheel will turn again.

Hail Winterfylleð. Hail the turning year. Hail the hope that endures.