Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.

They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin.

Ah, men do not know how much strength is in poise, That he goes the farthest who goes far enough.

Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.

The eye is the notebook of the poet.

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

We look at death through the cheap-glazed windows of the flesh, and believe him the monster which the flawed and cracked glass represents him.