Success is the brand on the brow of the man who aimed too low.

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

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

Commonplace people dislike tragedy because they dare not suffer and cannot exult.

I must go down to the sea again For the call of the running tide It's a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.

In the dark room where I began My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her.

My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails.