Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw,
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam,
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest
To little harps of gold; and while they mused,
Whispering to each other half in fear,
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea.
. . .
O hither, come hither and furl your sails,
Come hither to me and to me:
Hither, come hither and frolic and play . . .