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 And yet, what weed, O Tangaroa, lord of the sea! Rooted for ever, endureth the wearing wave? Which fern, O Tawhiri-matea, lord of the tempest! Suffering the seasons, upspringeth for ever more? O friend! The old laws, from for ever establish’d and rooted for ever, What reverence, what use, to revile?

Ay, who hath ever known one year, Sunny and windless all its days? The Summer gleams and glows, Bright berries burn.... Then, Winter howls! The South-wind bites like salt, the white frost bites, The glow is fled, the glory all is gone, And Lo! that is, which was decreed to be.

Or, what bay feels a tide for ever full? Bright Toé-toé and green grass line it with sheen, The tickled pebbles laugh, The deep swell sways.... Then comes the ebb! From bubbling ooze the mud-crabs sidle out The beach is silent, the clear lustre lost, And, Lo! that is which was decreed to be.

Or, what young man is man for ever young? His eyeballs beam; his thought flieth like wind; Hope marries with his heart, Strength with his hand—