I am heaping the bones of the old mother
To build us a hold against the host of the air;
Granite the blood-heat of her youth
Held molten in hot darkness against the heart
Hardened to temper under the feet
Of the ocean cavalry that are maned with snow
And march from the remotest west.
This is the primitive rock, here in the wet Quarry under the shadow of waves Whose hollows mouthed the dawn; little house each stone Baptized from that abysmal font The sea and the secret earth gave bonds to affirm you.

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