This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.

Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills, And beat me down and marr’d and wasted me, And tho’ they could not end me, left me maim’d To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. - Tithonus

For always roaming with a hungry heart.

Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.