“Before the gods that made the gods had seen their sunrise pass, the white horse of the white horse vale was cut out of the grass”

“What grasses the horses had left was heavy with dew, as if some passing god had scattered a bag of diamonds over the earth.”

“If a prince on a white horse actually appeared in front of me...I think I'd like to see him fall off that horse. But..if he wasn't a prince on a white horse to begin with...what would I want then?”

“Sirs, I am but a nameless man,A rhymester without a home,Yet since I come of the Wessex clayAnd carry the cross of Rome,I will even answer the mighty earlThat asked of Wessex menWhy they be meek and monkish folk, And bow to the White Lord's broken yoke;What sign have we save blood and smoke?Here is my answer then.That on you is fallen the shadow,And not upon the Name;That though we scatter and though we fly,And you hang over us like the sky,You are more tired of victory,Than we are tired of shame.That though you hunt the Christian man Like a hare on the hill-side,The hare has still more heart to runThan you have heart to ride.That though all lances split on you,All swords be heaved in vain,We have more lust again to loseThan you to win again.Your lord sits high in the saddle,A broken-hearted king,But our king Alfred, lost from fame,Fallen among foes or bonds of shame,In I know not what mean trade or name,Has still some song to sing.Our monks go robed in rain and snow,But the heart of flame therein,But you go clothed in feasts and flames,When all is ice within;Nor shall all iron dooms make dumbMen wandering ceaselessly,If it be not better to fast for joyThan feast for misery.Nor monkish order onlySlides down, as field to fen,All things achieved and chosen pass,As the White Horse fades in the grass,No work of Christian men.Ere the sad gods that made your godsSaw their sad sunrise pass,The White Horse of the White Horse Vale,That you have left to darken and fail,Was cut out of the grass.Therefore your end is on you,Is on you and your kings,Not for a fire in Ely fen,Not that your gods are nine or ten,But because it is only Christian menGuard even heathen things.For our God hath blessed creation,Calling it good. I knowWhat spirit with whom you blindly band Hath blessed destruction with his hand;Yet by God's death the stars shall standAnd the small apples grow.”

“Hazel blinked. “Two gods had a horse for a kid?”“Long story.”

“Wherever her feet pass, white flowers part the grass.”