Wind among the Reeds — 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. |