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Newfoundland, lie still. You are what
I cannot know : there out beyond Nova
Scotia, last bastion of a continent, so
Unshapely and strange, compromising
At no point in my thought, colder and
More distant that the sea itself.

I have seen your clean white houses
In photographs, where they lie before
White giants of ice that drift gently
In a rolling sea. I have seen the bright
Roofs of the quiet and sparse towns,
Torn pools and the masses of fern.

You are not sensible to me, where you
Lie upon the chart. Your body turns
Across the earth's rigid surface, drawn
Up into an angle of the north east : so
Your relation to the continent is forever
Misunderstood, and it had seemed you

Broke from North America's great face.
O, I would arrive at St. John's with thirst
And be fed there and drink my fill.
I would come to the water and look out
On all its great expanse, knowing that
My quiet islands lay out there beyond.