And graceful thy gold ringlets streaming,
As wont in the westering blaze.
Thee the blind mist of night ne’er deceiveth,
Nor sends from the right course astray!
The strong tempest, all ocean that grieveth,
Can ne’er make thee bend from thy way.
At the call of the mild morn appearing,
Thy festal face wakens up bright;
Thy shade from all dark places clearing,
But the bard’s eye that ne’er sees thy light.