The snowy sail
Is hoisted to the gladly gushing gale,
That bosom’d its fair canvass with a breast
Of silver, looking lovely to the west;
And at the helm there sits the wither’d one,
Gazing and gazing on the sister nun,
With her fair tresses floating on his knee—
The beautiful death-stricken Agathè!
Fast, fast, and far away, the bark hath stood
Out toward the great heaving solitude,