When with white wings and rhyme of rapid oars

The sisters of your speed, as fleet as you,

With silver scythes, the reapers of the blue,

Turn from their harvest to the sunset shores;

When the pine-heaving mistral rolls afar

The sounding gust that your stiff pinion loves,

And rose-lit sails, a thousand homing doves

With foamy ribbons draw the wave-born Star;

May you be first her rising torch to greet

And first within the distant port to ride,

Your triangle of silver for her guide,

Your pearling prow a sandal to her feet.