The Hosting Of The Sidhe by William Butler Yeats

[elenbarathi.livejournal.com]

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

Sean Joyce, 'The First People Lived In The Big House'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

The First People Lived In The Big House

The First People lived in the big house
and the First People had everything.
In the rivers and streams fat fish leapt
to nets while birds sang in the trees.

In sunshine and shadow fruit ripened
and fell into waiting baskets.
The First People lived in the big house
and the First People had everything.

But the Second People were already on the highroad.

The Second People came to the
big house and they moved in.
They were more powerful than
the First People and they wanted
the whole house for themselves.

They invited the First People to a party.
The First People didn't want to go to
the party but there was nowhere else
to go to except to the party.

At the party the Second People fell on
the First People and massacred them.
They cut the throats of everyone
and not a single soul survived.

Now the Second People lived in
the big house, the birds sang
in the trees, fish flew in the rivers.
The Second People had everything
they also had ghosts.

( Children went missing... )

All Hallows - Louise Gluck

[bleodswean.livejournal.com]

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

Double Ballade of Life and Fate

[med_cat]

DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE

Fools may pine, and sots may swill,
Cynics gibe, and prophets rail,
Moralists may scourge and drill,
Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail.
Let them whine, or threat, or wail!
Till the touch of Circumstance
Down to darkness sink the scale,
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

What if skies be wan and chill?
What if winds be harsh and stale?
Presently the east will thrill,
And the sad and shrunken sail,
Bellying with a kindly gale,
Bear you sunwards, while your chance
Sends you back the hopeful hail:-
'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.'

( Idle shot or coming bill,/ Hapless love or broken bail,... )