The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare; Caolte 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 a-gleam, 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, And where is there hope or deed as fair? Caolte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling _Away, come away_. O sweet everlasting Voices be still; Go to the guards of the hea…
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