Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree,
While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell
Between its chords;and as the wild notes swell,
The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea
But to what sound her listening ear stoops she?
What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear,
In answering echoes from what planisphere,
Along the wind,along the estuary?
She sinks into her spell:and when full soon
Her lips move and she soars into her song,
What creatures of the midmost main shall throng
In furrowed self-clouds to the summoning rune,
Till he,the fated mariner,hears her cry,
And up to her rock,bare breasted,coms to die?