Oh ye maids, with deep and rosy bosoms!
Oh ye maids, with darkly flowing locks!
Wherefore is it that with songs ye woo me
Sitting in the shadows of the rocks?
Well hath she, the enchantress Circe told me,
All the evil that shall on me fall;
If I follow where your white feet lead me
Or give answer when your voices call.
Oh my comrades, bind me to the mainmast,
Stop my ears with wax and bind my hands,
Close my eyes that so no sight nor murmur
Of the singer or the song steal to me from the sands.
In the west the blood-red sun is sinking.
And the angry billows redly glow,
With the dying breeze the song is dying.
Ply the oars, my comrades, let us go!
Tarrytown, 1844.