“Land,” Scot surmised, “would feel, I suppose, no allegiance to a stewartry unable to elicit from its denizens poetry inspired by isthmus’ iconalatry.”

“Land—green in lea and grey at bay—arouses spouses arriving from away,” per what captain did say.

“Land ice has retreated,” sighed the arrived rock climber as heeded.

“Well, it is not map’s planned land—new, zeal of appeal for realm of real feel…but, for some reason,” depthed Deirdre, “I know this is where to kneel.”

“Port’s importance has always been this:” lit Mick, “Where sea meets land—fin or begin as it may kin—ever carries across the unsettled—again and again.” ; )