And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
Then stooping to the earth he grasped the soil with eager hand,
He kissed it, and with water he mixed the thirsty sand.
"O thou," he said, "poor soil and stream, in the Creator's plan
Art the end and the beginning of all that makes us man!
From thee rise myriad passions, that stir the human breast,
To thee at last, when all is o'er, they sink to find their rest.
Thou, Earth, hast been my mother, and when these pangs are o'er,
Thou shalt become my prison-house whence I can pass no more."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,