[William Butler Yeats]

The host is riding from Knockarea
And over the graves of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling [bad word] away:
Empty your heart if it's mortal dream,
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our [bad word] are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on [bad word] band,
 [bad word] between him and the hope of his heart
 [bad word] between him and the hope of his heart
The host [bad word] 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling [bad word] away.