THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE
The host is riding from Knoarea,
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling, “Away, e 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 a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart,
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We e between him and the deed of his hand,
We e 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, e away.”
(ò﹏ò)
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