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The Hosting
of the Sidhe
by William Butler Yeats
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling:
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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 a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
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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?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling:
Away, come away.
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I do not sell any of the art work represented.
Links have been provided when ever possible to
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obtain copies.
Brian Froud fairies
THE WORLD OF FROUD
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