THE NATIVE

Rocks, I am one with you;
Sea, I am yours.
Your rages come and go,
Your strength endures.

Passion may burn and fade;

Pain surge and cease.
My still soul rests unchanged
Through storm and peace.

Fir-tree, beaten by wind,
Sombre, austere,

Your sap is in my veins,
O kinsman dear.

Your fibres rude and true
My sinews feed—
Sprung of the same bleak earth,

The same rough seed.

The tempest harries us.
It raves and dies;
And wild limbs rest again
Under wide skies.

To conquer fate.
The clean life nourishing you
Makes me, too, great.

O rocks, O fir-tree brave,
O grass and sea!