When the fleet ships stand inward to the shore
As a white tempest, ’tis then I implore
The gods not treasure of red spice to spill
Upon the marble quays beneath the hill,
Nor scintillant dust from far Arabian streams,
Nor weaves more brilliant than the hue of dreams,
Nor feathers, pearls, or such things as belong
To Eastern waters, but a wondrous song
To send perchance upon a seaman’s lips
That once I heard when the departing ships