THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE
by: William Butler Yeats
(1865-1939)
- HE host is riding from Knocknarea
- And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
- Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
- And Niamh calling Away, come away:
- Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
- The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
- Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
- Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
- Our arms are waving, our lips are 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 'twixt night and day,
- And where is there hope or deed as fair?
- Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
- And Niamh calling Away, come away.
"The Hosting of the Sidhe"
is reprinted from The Wind Among the Reeds. W.B. Yeats.
London: Elkin Mathews, 1899. |
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POEMS BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |
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