The host is riding from Knockarea
And over the graves of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling away, come away:
Empty your heart if it's mortal dream,
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the hope of his heart
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?
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling away, come away.



[Dedicated to William Butler Yeats, one of Eire's greatest sons]