Where with their boats the fishers land


    Xrύσεοι δ’ ἐρέβινθοι ἐπ’ ἀϊόνων ἐφύοντο·

    WHERE with their boats the fishers land 
    Grew golden pulse along the sand ; 
    It tangled Phaon's feet—away 
    He spurned the trails, and would not stay ; 
    Its stems and yellow flowers in vain 
    Withheld him : can my arms detain 
    The fugitive ? If that might be, 
    If I could win him from the sea, 
    Then subtly I would draw him down 
    'Mid the bright vetches ; in a crown 
    My art should teach him to entwine 
    Their thievish rings, and keep him mine.