“The host is rushing 'twixt day and night,And where is there hope or deed as fair?Caoilte tossing his burning hair,And Niamh calling Away, come away.”

“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”

“Time drops in decayLike a candle burnt out.And the mountains and woodsHave their day, have their day;But, kindly old routOf the fire-born moods,You pass not away.”

“From man's blood-sodden heart are sprungThose branches of the night and dayWhere the gaudy moon is hung.What's the meaning of all song?"Let all things pass away.”

“Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say;Never to have drawn the breath of life,never to have looked into the eye ofday;The second best’s a gay good night andquickly turn away.”

“A man awaits his endDreading and hoping all;Many times he died,Many times rose again”

“And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings...”