The coast is a blur and without meaning
The churches and routines
Which stopped there and never cared or dared to
  Cross over to interfere
With this outpost where nothing is wicked
  But to be sorry or sick

    — W. H. Auden, "Pleasure Island"

Ferry after ferry brings us in, candidates for sun, survivors,
Certain that this time it will be better,
That the most private heart,
Playing house in houses built on sand,
Will bear exposure and not be burnt.
  We need nothing.
  We know this world is miraculous.

     — Robert Adams, "The Island"