My vessel’s helm is of ivory white,

Her bulwarks glisten with jewels bright

And red gold;

The sails are made from the wings of a dove,

And the man at the wheel is the god of love,

Blithe and bold.

Where shall we sail? ’Mid the Baltic’s foam?

Or over the broad Pacific roam?

Don’t refuse.

Say, shall we gather the sweet snow-flowers,