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 To shelter my head— The dark, still air of the silent forest, To lay, like a leaf, on these quivering eyeballs— Where? As of old, Winds blow warm from the North, Winds blow cold from the South, Rain-clouds drive from the mountain, and spray from the sea, The sun from the sea rises bright, as of old:— They are warm’d, they are cool’d, they are lit and refresh’d as of old Nevermore! Once, when a chief was dead, another chief took his place— When the old net was rotten, behold, another was used— But what successor to me? Lo, white with the spray, warp’d with the sun, A canoe water-logg’d, a basket worn-out, A plank cast-off from the house of my kinsfolk— I, I only, am left!

O Ti, In soil of the Maori, ’mid turf of the Pakeha, Thou, in like manner, ancient exceedingly, Standest alone. Thy dry leaves rattle. Thou, too, standest alone. Where are thy fathers? Where are thy brethren? Thick, round about, stand the trees of thin foliage, From over the sea-waves:— But where are thy seedlings? Our saplings, where flourish they?