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(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939 / County Dublin / Ireland)

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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,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.

Submitted: Thursday, May 17, 2001
Edited: Saturday, June 11, 2005

Read poems about / on: hair, dream, hope, heart, night, wind

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Comments about this poem (A Last Confession by William Butler Yeats )

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  • Harriet James (8/4/2012 2:41:00 AM)

    This is my favourite WB poem at the moment, have been reading it in my collections book for days now, glad to see it here. I could read it over and over forever.

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  • Séamas Ó Súilleabháin (1/15/2010 6:45:00 PM)

    I adore this piece. The old lore of nations enchant the land, it gives us a greater sense of being. The golden cycle of life and eternity. Those that came before us shared the same emotion, and had the same hearts.

    The idealism of the mind, and romance just calls us to us;
    'Away, come away.'

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