A month with Yeats: Day Four

I must remember to add the source poem. This is another piece from ‘To some I have talked with by the fire’.

“…till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.” W.B. Yeats

The ineffable host

 

In the rushy wind we hear them,

In the voices of the night.

They answer the hesitant moonlight

With laughter, sharp and white.

They ride the horses of darkness

Across the midnight plain,

And they snatch away our dreamings

And leave us only pain.

The fairy folk are riding,

For spurs, the north wind’s bite,

And the morning seems so far away,

No help in the moon’s frail light.

They are gone in the swoop of the screech owl,

With the dying of the night,

Taking their pale, white beauty,

Far from our mortal sight.

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