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.