O thou, O sea, that stirrest up my pain,I came, O sea, that thou mightst be my gain;
That crashing wave from thy tumultuous tideAroused, O sea, my youth's memories inside;
Dost thou, O sea, weep in the night alone,With tears for wanderers bereft and moan;
How shall I sing whilst thou dost tell the earth,Thou fear'st not in existence any dearth;
Within me life ebbs forth and ebbs again,I am of those whom all creation pain;
If thou reveal in waves both ill and good,My life to thee, O sea, is but a flood;
Thou dost resound with tempests now and then,And seest me as a bird that mourns in pain;
Thou dost recall the memories of woe,Whilst I had hidden them from thee, I know;
My cup I drank, and patience was its brim,Yet patience bitter is when truth is grim;
We both, O sea, are inspiration, spell,And art at last shall be our recompense as well.
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