Her clear song followed on pinions afar;
The birds sang forth from the trees.
O boat in your path to the rising sun,
To that land beyond the sea,
Pray, what is the cargo,—your journey done—
You will bear her, if Fate decree?
For you take her heart (on your snowy deck)
Where Love is now High Priest,
And you take her troth—may there be no wreck,