O’erflooding the sands of Wai-o-lama.
God’s temple is roofed with the fingers,
And the thumb is lifted in earnest prayer
By the concourse met in the uplands.
High piles the surf that sweeps from Kahiki;
It breaks at the foot of Kilauea;
Is driven back by the hot lava plates.
Now calls from the wayside a human voice;
Your suitor, Goddess who rifled the bloom
From my Ola’an park of lehua