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

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.

Life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter.

Humans consist of body, mind and imagination. Our bodies are faulty, our minds untrustworthy, but our imagination has made us remarkable.

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

Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, and the rain, And the watch fire under stars, and sleep, and the road again.

Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.