Alfred Tennyson

“ When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords
⁠Runs up the ridgéd sea.
⁠Ye will not find so happy a shore
⁠Weary mariners! all the world o'er;
⁠Oh! fly no more!
⁠Harken ye, harken ye, sorrow shall darken ye,
⁠Danger and trouble and toil no more ”

“ 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 reached them on the middle sea. ”