In the power and splendor of the universe, inspiration waits for the millions to come. Man has only to strive for it. Poems greater than the Iliad, plays greater than Macbeth, stories more engaging than Don Quixote await their seeker and finder.

Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.

God warms his hands at man's heart when he prays.

All I ask is a tall ship and a star to sail her by.

But he has gone, A nation's memory and veneration, Among the radiant, ever venturing on, Somewhere, with morning, as such spirits will.

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Off Cape Horn there are but two kinds of weather, neither one of them a pleasant kind.