Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.
Lord ByronOh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.
Lord ByronThe simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
Lord Byron