Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men.

Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.

Saw life steadily and saw it whole.

Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born.

The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;- on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

History - a vast Mississippi of falsehoods