A bitter rain blots out one half the Pit;
Heëia is whelmed by a tidal wave;—
Dread day of the fiery Goddess!
The face of the cliff is splintered away;
The lowlands are littered with fragments;
Her besom spares other land, not the park.
The screw-palms are rent, the rock-plates shattered;
The bowlders grind, the mamanes groan;
I hear the pitiful sob of the trees.
The tree-gods weep at their change into stone.