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...CAMPUS SONNET: TALK by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE SACHEM OF THE CLOUDS (A THANKSGIVING LEGEND) by ROBERT FROST OLD MEN ON THE COURTHOUSE LAWN, MURRAY, KENTUCKY by JAMES GALVIN MATER AMABILIS by EMMA LAZARUS LINCOLN TRIUMPHANT by EDWIN MARKHAM SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALONZO CHURCHILL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |