I call to Robur, watcher in the wood,
great god whose oldest, truest name is lost to time,
lord of the foreland, the town above the river,
lord of the oak-tree, O mighty one who cleaves
to the land and its spirit. Robur of the firebolt,
who stands against the storm, unbending, unbowed;
who passes through the years, growing in wisdom,
growing in strength, rooted in the black earth,
settled on the solid stone below; long ago
your people dwelt within great walls, sheltered and safe;
long ago your name was called in prayer. To Robur,
soul of the enduring oak, I offer my praise.