The host is riding from Knocknarea <br />And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare; <br />Caoilte tossing his burning hair, <br />And Niamh calling Away, come away: <br />Empty your heart of its mortal dream. <br />The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, <br />Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, <br />Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam, <br />Our arms are waving, our lips are apart; <br />And if any gaze on our rushing band, <br />We come between him and the deed of his hand, <br />We come between him and the hope of his heart. <br />The host is rushing 'twixt night and day, <br />And where is there hope or deed as fair? <br />Caoilte tossing his burning hair, <br />And Niamh calling Away, come away.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hosting-of-the-sidhe/
