Hedge Witch Quotes

If you invited a hedge wizard to a party, he would spend half the evening talking to your potted plant. And he would spend the other half listening.

I once knew of a minstrel who bragged of having had a thousand women, one time each. He would never know what I knew, that to have one woman a thousand times, and each time find in her a different delight, is far better. I knew now what gleamed in the eyes of old couples when they stared at each other across a room...My familiarity with her was a more potent love elixir than any potion sold by a hedge-witch in the market.

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d. Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined. Harpier cries ’Tis time, ’tis time. Round about the cauldron go; In the poison’d entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter’d venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Silver’d in the moon’s eclipse, Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips, Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver’d by a drab, Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron, For the ingredients of our cauldron. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

For one short wet month early in the next year the drought lifted. Spring tipped in like green well water frothing at the hedges bubbling at the roadside splashing from the cottage roof in garlands of ivy and stringflower

My mother was a pathetic patchwork witch who had used magic so much to meddle in her own life that she had no integrity left and was nothing but a coil of hatreds consuming themselves in futility. We had already hedged her power, with the help of the fairies.

It was a summer shower but didn’t appear to know it, and it was pouring rain as fast as a winter storm. Miss Perspicacia Tick sat in what little shelter a raggedy hedge could give her and explored the universe. She didn’t notice the rain. Witches dried out quickly.

The August sun hung high in an August blue and cloudless sky, and behind the hedge a thrush sang, but it seemed to Adam that this was simply making it all much worse.

The third encounter came towards the end of the afternoon when Sophie had worked her way quite high into the hills. A countryman came whistling down the lane towards her. A shepherd, Sophie thought, going home after seeing to his sheep. He was a well set up young fellow of forty or so. "Gracious!" Sophie said to herself. "This morning I'd have seen him as an old man. How one's point of view does alter!" When the shepherd saw Sophie mumbling to herself, he moved rather carefully over to the other side of the lane and called out with great heartiness, "Good evening to you, Mother! Where are you off to?" "Mother?" said Sophie. "I'm not your mother, young man!" "A manner of speaking," the shepherd said, edging along against the opposite hedge. "I was only meaning a polite inquiry, seeing you walking into the hills at the end of the day. You won't get down into Upper Folding before nightfall, will you?" Sophie had not considered this. She stood in the road and thought about it. "It doesn't matter really," she said, half to herself. "You can't be fussy when you're off to seek your fortune." "Can't you indeed, Mother?" said the shepherd. He had now edged himself downhill of Sophie and seemed to feel better for it. "Then I wish you luck, Mother, provided your fortune don't have nothing to do with charming folks' cattle." And he took off down the road in great strides, almost running, but not quite. Sophie stared after him indignantly. "He thought I was a witch!" she said to her stick. She had half a mind to scare the shepherd by shouting nasty things after him, but that seemed a little unkind.

He guided her back against a hedge, and kissed her breathless. The wind sang through the garden, tangling in her dress and his cloak, whipping around them both as his hands, more smoke than skin, wrapped around her waist and her hands, flesh and bone, wrapped around his back and––

And at that moment the Lord’s own hand out of the heavens struck the Horror where it stood; the old, dead, desecrated corpse of the witch-biddy, so long kept from the grave and herded around by demons, flared up like sulfur fire and fell in ashes to the ground; the thunder followed, peal on throbbing peal, the roaring rain upon the back of that; and Mr Soulis leapt through the garden hedge and ran, with scream upon scream, for the village.

No one expects to run into a hellhound on their pre-dawn run in the Seattle suburbs, not even me, and I’ve had a long history with the stinky mutts and their master.

May my existence change the world no more nor less than the gusting of wind or the proud growth of trees

solstices and equinoxes were the times magic burned closest to the surface of things, when any self-respecting hedge-witch or wild-hearted woman ought to be outdoors, with moonlight on her skin and night around her shoulders.

Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along like troops in a battle All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain Fly as thick as driving rain; And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Painted stations whistle by. Here is a child who clambers and scrambles, All by himself and gathering brambles; Here is a tramp who stands and gazes; And here is the green for stringing the daisies! Here is a cart runaway in the road Lumping along with man and load; And here is a mill, and there is a river: Each a glimpse and gone forever! From A Railway Carriage

Maybe,” Clove hedged. Realization washed over me. “I’m guessing you’re interested in seeing the Dandridge but you don’t want to see me.” “That’s not exactly it,” Clove said. “Clove, I had a really long night,” I said, tugging on my limited patience. “If you don’t want to tell me why you’re here, then … you can help me clean up.” I handed her the garbage bag. “Hold that open.” Clove wordlessly took the bag and watched as I picked my way around the clearing and gathered the trash. Her face was hard to read, and finally I couldn’t take the silence one second longer. “What are you thinking?” I asked. “I’m thinking that you’re a little old to be partying in the woods,” Clove replied, not missing a beat. “I’m not judging you, but once you hit twenty-five you’re officially too old to be drinking Milwaukee’s Best around a bonfire …

I’m their favorite target,” Clove confirmed. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.” “That doesn’t sound fair to me,” I said. “You should tell them where to stick it when they tell you things about … Bigfoot.” Clove shrugged. “I’m not really worried about it,” she said. “They’re my best friends. I mess with them, too.” “You mess with Thistle?” I was doubtful. “Only when I’m hungry for dirt,” Clove answered, causing me to knit my eyebrows. I had no idea what that meant. “Well, if you ever want to see inside the lighthouse – and I promise a Bigfoot-free experience – don’t hesitate to stop by,” I offered. “You’ll probably like it, and because you own your own business in town, I would welcome any insight you have for when I open the Dandridge.” “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Clove hedged, shifting from one foot to the other. “We probably shouldn’t hang out.

I wasn't close enough to make out the words. Like I said earlier, when I heard them fighting, I hid in the hedge.

A hedge witch’s practice is often shamanic and Seidh in nature, involving astral projection, lucid dreaming, trance work, and communication with spirits.

Maybe you just need to find your people." "What if I don't have people? What if I'm just...an outsider?" "Then find some other outsiders,” Gareth replied matter-of-factly.

Maybe you just need to find your people." "What if I don't have people? What if I'm just...an outsider?" "Then find some other outsiders,” Gareth replied matter-of-factly.

I call to the watchtowers of the East! To the Goddess of Air and Wind, Wielding the wand of old. To the leaves in the sky, To the birds flying high, To the scents of the flowers, To limitless powers. To the wisest of minds, And the freest of souls, Rise now and let your story go.

Where the sea meets the shore, where forest meets field, where mountain meets sky. Edges. Boundary lands. Betwixt-places where the fruits of life clash, fuse, create, and thrive. Edges are the most alive places on earth, the most fertile places within our minds.

Jacob Schwarten his wife heeded it not, but still plagued my child to give her her apron to make a christening coat for her baby, for that it was pity to let it be burnt, her goodman gave her such a thump on her back with a knotted stick which he had pulled out of the hedge that she fell down with loud shrieks; and when he went to help her up she pulled him down by his hair, and, as reverend Martinus said, now executed what she had threatened; inasmuch as she struck him on the nose with her fist with might and main, until the other people came running up to them, and held her back.

Mags always said the solstices and equinoxes were the times magic burned closest to the surface of things, when any self-respecting hedge-witch or wild-hearted woman ought to be outdoors, with moonlight on her skin and night around her shoulders.

For a time, in that room, we were as young as we had ever been, save that with the experience of years of each other, there was no awkwardness, no hesitation. I once knew of a minstrel who bragged of having had a thousand women, one time each. He would never know what I knew, that to have one woman a thousand times, and each time find in her a different delight, is far better. I knew now what gleamed in the eyes of old couples when they saw each other across a room. More than once I had met Molly’s glance at a crowded family gathering, and known from the bend of her smile and her fingers touching her mouth exactly what she had in mind for us once we were alone. My familiarity with her was a more potent love elixir than any potion sold by a hedge-witch in the market.

It is noted that witches were inclined to fly on brooms, stangs, pitchforks, distaffs and even ladles which can initially seem a little strange. But when we realise that in Hungary, for instance, when the drum became something that could no longer be owned for fear of being caught using it to go into a trance state, it gradually became replaced by the sieve, a common household object that could be pressed into the service of the unseen.[5] These common household objects are a testimony to how the world outside the hedge continually interpenetrates with everything inside it, everything mundane and seemingly normal and unthreatening remains subtly imbued with its Other. In a world where ‘witchcraft’, a practice always partially hidden, became something that had to hide, it was able to hide, behind every teapot, ladle, broom and kettle on the stovetop.