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The Hosting
The Host is riding from Knoknorea,
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 and our hair is unbound,
and if any gaze on our rusing band,
we come between him and the dead
of his hand-
we come between him and the hope
of his heart...
The Host is rusing twixt the night and
the day,
and where is there hope or a deed
as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
and Niamh calling'
Away, come away......
-poem by W. B. Yeats
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