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It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.
Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.
Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.
Life is a long headache in a noisy street.
What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt Held in cohesion by unresting cells, Which work they know not why, which never halt, Myself unwitting where their Master dwells?
The days that make us happy make us wise.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.
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