Straits of Belle Isle

By sea-spray only, and by wave on wave

Of distance illimitable and pure

Like passing icebergs, the ship's whistle clear:

Parted and disappeared before your eyes;

The sight of distance somehow drawing near,

The sea's lift and the wind now whipping hard,

Strain of all ocean on the metal plates,

Immense pressure of steam boilers endure,

Tug-thump of turbines, hourly twirl of screws,

Hour by hour traversing the Straits.