The storm-cloud hangs low o’er the land.
A rampart stand the woods of Haili;
Ohi’as thick-set must be brushed aside,
To tear one’s way, like a covey of fowl,
In the wilds of Pa-ie-ie—
Lehua growths mine—heart of Mokau-lele.
A breaking, a weaving of boughs, to shield from rain;
A look enraptured on Hana-kahi,
Sees Hilo astir, the blue ocean tossing
Wind-thrown-spray—dear sea—’gainst Point Lele-iwi—