My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails.
Success is the brand on the brow of the man who aimed too low.
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.
It ought to have gangsters, and aeroplanes and a lot of automatic pistols.
I hold that when a person dies / His soul returns again to earth; / Arrayed in some new flesh disguise / Another mother gives him birth / With sturdier limbs and brighter brain.