There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea, and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates.

Nature fits all her children with something to do, he who would write and can't write, can surely review.

Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, and cries reproachful: Was it then my praise, and not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; I claim of thee the promise of thy youth.

Whom the heart of man shuts out, Sometimes the heart of God takes in, And fences them all round about With silence mid the worlds loud din.

Many make the household but only one the home.

The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me.

That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing.