MARINA SINGS(Pericles, Act V, Sc. i.)
This is the song Marina sangTo forlorn Pericles:Silver the young voice rang.The gray beard blew about his knees,And the hair of his bowed head, like a veil,Fell over his cheeks and blent with it:He knew not anything.Above him the Tyrian foldOf the curtain billowed, fringed with gold,As might beseem a king.Sunset was rose on every sailThat did along the far sea flit,And rose on the cedarn deckOf the ship that at anchor swayed;And the harbor was golden-lit.He lifted not his neckAt the coming of the maid.She swept him with her eyes,As though some tender wingJust touched a bleaching wreckIn sheeted sand that lies;Then she began to sing.
This is the song Marina sangTo forlorn Pericles:Silver the young voice rang.The gray beard blew about his knees,And the hair of his bowed head, like a veil,Fell over his cheeks and blent with it:He knew not anything.Above him the Tyrian foldOf the curtain billowed, fringed with gold,As might beseem a king.Sunset was rose on every sailThat did along the far sea flit,And rose on the cedarn deckOf the ship that at anchor swayed;And the harbor was golden-lit.He lifted not his neckAt the coming of the maid.She swept him with her eyes,As though some tender wingJust touched a bleaching wreckIn sheeted sand that lies;Then she began to sing.
This is the song Marina sangTo forlorn Pericles:Silver the young voice rang.The gray beard blew about his knees,And the hair of his bowed head, like a veil,Fell over his cheeks and blent with it:He knew not anything.Above him the Tyrian foldOf the curtain billowed, fringed with gold,As might beseem a king.Sunset was rose on every sailThat did along the far sea flit,And rose on the cedarn deckOf the ship that at anchor swayed;And the harbor was golden-lit.He lifted not his neckAt the coming of the maid.She swept him with her eyes,As though some tender wingJust touched a bleaching wreckIn sheeted sand that lies;Then she began to sing.
This is the song Marina sang
To forlorn Pericles:
Silver the young voice rang.
The gray beard blew about his knees,
And the hair of his bowed head, like a veil,
Fell over his cheeks and blent with it:
He knew not anything.
Above him the Tyrian fold
Of the curtain billowed, fringed with gold,
As might beseem a king.
Sunset was rose on every sail
That did along the far sea flit,
And rose on the cedarn deck
Of the ship that at anchor swayed;
And the harbor was golden-lit.
He lifted not his neck
At the coming of the maid.
She swept him with her eyes,
As though some tender wing
Just touched a bleaching wreck
In sheeted sand that lies;
Then she began to sing.