One says, you and I are a-cold.
The buds of the center are chilled
Of the woman who shivers on shore.
I stood on the height Poli-ahu;
The ocean enrobed Wai-lua.
Ah, strange are the pranks of the wind,
The Kiu-ké’e wind of the pali!
It smites now the ocean at Puna—
That’s always the fashion at Puna.
Gone, gone is the last of my love,