The Wind Among The Reeds Part 1

The Wind Among the Reeds.

by William Butler Yeats.

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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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_.

THE EVERLASTING VOICES

O sweet everlasting Voices be still; Go to the guards of the heavenly fold And bid them wander obeying your will Flame under flame, till Time be no more; Have you not heard that our hearts are old, That you call in birds, in wind on the hill, In shaken boughs, in tide on the sh.o.r.e?

O sweet everlasting Voices be still.

THE MOODS

Time drops in decay, Like a candle burnt out, And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; What one in the rout Of the fire-born moods, Has fallen away?

AEDH TELLS OF THE ROSE IN HIS HEART

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart, With the earth and the sky and the water, remade, like a casket of gold For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

THE HOST OF THE AIR

O'Driscoll drove with a song, The wild duck and the drake, From the tall and the tufted reeds Of the drear Hart Lake.

And he saw how the reeds grew dark At the coming of night tide, And dreamed of the long dim hair Of Bridget his bride.

He heard while he sang and dreamed A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad, And never was piping so gay.

And he saw young men and young girls Who danced on a level place And Bridget his bride among them, With a sad and a gay face.

The dancers crowded about him, And many a sweet thing said, And a young man brought him red wine And a young girl white bread.

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve, Away from the merry bands, To old men playing at cards With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom, For these were the host of the air; He sat and played in a dream Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men And thought not of evil chance, Until one bore Bridget his bride Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms, The handsomest young man there, And his neck and his breast and his arms Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O'Driscoll scattered the cards And out of his dream awoke: Old men and young men and young girls Were gone like a drifting smoke;

But he heard high up in the air A piper piping away, And never was piping so sad, And never was piping so gay.

BREASAL THE FISHERMAN

Although you hide in the ebb and flow Of the pale tide when the moon has set, The people of coming days will know About the casting out of my net, And how you have leaped times out of mind Over the little silver cords, And think that you were hard and unkind, And blame you with many bitter words.

A CRADLE SONG

The Danann children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes, For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies, With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold: I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast, And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me.

Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea; Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West; Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat The doors of h.e.l.l and blow there many a whimpering ghost; O heart the winds have shaken; the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles before Maurya's feet.

INTO THE TWILIGHT

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh heart again in the gray twilight, Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young, Dew ever shining and twilight gray; Though hope fall from you and love decay, Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will; And G.o.d stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight; And love is less kind than the gray twilight, And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.