X
To sea! Tosea! The ship is trim ;
The breezes bend the sails.
They chant the necromantic hymn,
Arouse Arabian tales.
To sea! Before us leap the waves ;
The wild white combers follow.
Invoke, ye melancholy slaves,
The morning of Apollo!
There’s phosphorescence in the wake,
And starlight o’er the prow.
One comet, like an angry snake,
Lifts up its hooded brow.
The black grows grey toward the East :
A hint of silver glows.
Gods gather to the mystic feast
On interlunar snows.
D 25