The Hosting of the Sidhe
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
by William Butler Yeats
Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful-a faery's child
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sidelong she would bend and sing
A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said-
"I love thee true."
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed-Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death pale were they all;
They cried-"La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid waning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
John Keats
