But we are in dark I-thona, surrounded by the storm. The billows lift their white heads above our rocks. Our fathers never feared. The billows still tremble on the deep. They seem to fear the blast.
Morning is gray on our rocks.
I lifted up my sails with joy before the halls of generous Conlath. I saw her, like that beam of the sun that issues from the cloud. Her hair was on her heaving breast. She, bending forward, drew the bow. Her white arm seemed, behind her, like the snow of Cromla.