WHAT can we say of the night?
The fog night, the moon night, the fog moon night last night?
There swept out of the sea a song.
There swept out of the sea—torn white plungers.
There came on the coast wind drive
In the spit of a driven spray,
On the boom of foam and rollers,
The cry of midnight to morning:
Hoi-a-loa.
Hoi-a-loa.
Hoi-a-loa.
Who has loved the night more than I have?
Who has loved the fog moon night last night more than I have?
Out of the sea that song
—can I ever forget it?
Out of the sea those plungers
—can I remember anything else?
Out of the midnight morning cry: Hoi-a-loa:
—how can I hunt any other songs now?
