Are strung like harps with yellow hair,
That make Æolian music there;
A seraph shall our pilot be.
O sun-bright maiden, choose and say,
Whither shall we two sail to-day?
Our pinnace lifts her snowy wing
And flutters like a living thing;
And from the shore the morning wind
Toys with our awning’s purple fold;
Our rudder is of beaten gold