Morn comes forth with rays to crown her,
While the sun afar is spreading
Golden cloths most finely woven
All to dry her tear-drops purely.
Up to noon he climbs, then straightway
Sinks, and then dark night makes ready
For the burial of the sea
Canopies of black outstretching--
Tall ships fly on linen pinions,
On with speed the breezes send it,