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The Hosting of the Sidhe
| The 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. |
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By PanEris
using Melati.
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