A Chorus

  You whom we bless
For the graves that bore us; for the pit of doom—
Of our salvation; for the caves of breath
Shored with the bones of cities: life in which we lay
Holed fast as foxes in the stony scrub:
O mother of us, we are born from you
  Once more, once more
To that unchanging sea that is our death.

  You whom we bless
For the waves that bore us—dragons and all deeps
Shattered beneath our carriers; for doom
That rocked for the nations in the green, salt, rolling grave—
That shuffled the nations, driftwood, to their graves:
O mother of us, our breath bursts from you
  Once more, once more
To that unchanging air that is our death.