To your bosom take my head,
Soul and body I surrender!
Sing me dead, caress me dead,
Drain my life with kisses tender.
11.
In their grey-hued clouds envelop’d,
Now the mighty gods are sleeping;
And I listen to their snoring,
Stormy weather o’er us creeping.
Stormy weather! Raging tempests
On the poor ship bring disaster;
On these winds who’ll place a bridle,—
On these waves that own no master?
I the storm can never hinder,
Nor the mast and planks from creaking,
So I wrap me in my mantle,
Like the gods for slumber seeking.
12.
The wind puts on its breeches again,
Its white and watery breeches;
It flogs each billow with might and main,
Till it howls and rushes and pitches.
From the darksome height, with furious might
Pours the rain in wild commotion;
It seems as though the ancient Night
Would drown the ancient Ocean.
To the ship’s high mast the sea-mew clings,
With hoarse and shrill shrieking and yelling;
In anxious-wise she flutters her wings,
Approaching disasters foretelling.