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

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.

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

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

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

Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the amusement and delight of the few.

The luck will alter and the star will rise.