THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE by William Butler Yeats The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of the Clooth-na-bare Caolte tossing his burning hair and Niamh calling: Away, come away; Empty your heart of its mortal dream The winds awaken, the leaves whirl around Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam Our arms are waving our lips apart And if any gaze on our rushing band We come between him and the deed of his hand We come between him and the hope of his heart The host is rushing"twist night and day" And where is there hope or deed as fair Caolte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling: Away, come |
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