You oceans both, I close with you, We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, knowing not why, These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all.

You friable shore with trails of debris, You fish-shaped island, I take what is underfoot, What is yours is mine my father.

I too Paumanok, I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been wash’d on your shores, I too am but a trail of drift and debris, I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island.

I throw myself upon your breast my father, I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me, I hold you so firm till you answer me something.