My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails.

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.

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

It ought to have gangsters, and aeroplanes and a lot of automatic pistols.

Man's body is faulty, his mind untrustworthy, but his imagination has made him remarkable.

So death obscures your gentle form, So memory strives to make the darkness bright; And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, Part of the island till the planet ends, My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, Part of this crag this bitter surge offends, While I, who pass, a little obscure thing, War with this force, and breathe, and am its king.

My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails.