You friable shore, with trails of debris!
You fish-shaped island! I take what is underfoot:
What is yours is mine, my father!
XI.
I, too, Paumanok, I, too, have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been washed on your shores.
XII.
I, too, am but a trail of drift and debris,—
I, too, leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island!
XIII.
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.
XIV.
Kiss me, my father!
Touch me with your lips, as I touch those I love!
Breathe to me, while I hold you close, the secret of the wondrous
murmuring I envy!
For I fear I shall become crazed, if I cannot emulate it, and utter
myself as well as it.