Page:The wind among the reeds.pdf/17



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-glean, 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,