The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare; Caoilte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling @3Away, 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.@1 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 @3Away, come away.@1 | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHAMBER MUSIC: 8 by JAMES JOYCE TO MILITARY PROGRESS by MARIANNE MOORE THE LONELY HOUSE by EMILY DICKINSON THE BELEAGUERED CITY by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW A DROP OF DEW by ANDREW MARVELL FOR AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN (BY ANDREA MANTEGNA) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI |