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