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,
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
THE
EVERLASTING VOICES
O SWEET everlasting
Voices, be still;
Go to the guards of the heavenly fold
And bid them wander obeying your will,
Flame under flame, till Time be no more;
Have you not heard that our hearts are old,
That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,
In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.
THE
MOODS
TIME drops in decay,
Like a candle burnt out,
And the mountains and woods
Have their day, have their day;
What one in the rout
Of the fire-born moods
Has fallen away?
THE
LOVER TELLS OF THE ROSE IN HIS HEART
ALL things uncomely and
broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the
creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the
wintry mould,
Are wronging
your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely
things is a wrong too great to be told; I hunger to build them anew and sit on
a green knoll apart,
With the earth
and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold
For my dreams
of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
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