Shells tilted up by Venus' heel
Seen through the milk of morning air;
White Sicily confronts our keel
With twin cliffs rising, each as fair
As that smooth-lined up-tilted boat
From which the Foam-Born Queen stept out.

But who can land where I am bound?
In vain the natives tread their home.
They shall not find its holy ground,
Who have not sought it in the tome
Whose letters twist like curls that deck
The nape of Venus' golden neck.