I will go back to the great sweet mother,/ Mother and lover of men, the sea.

Between the two seas the sea-bird's wing makes halt, Wind-weary; while with lifting head he waits For breath to reinspire him from the gates That open still toward sunrise on the vault High-domed of morning. - Algernon Charles Swinburne,

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,/ The mother of months in meadow or plain/ Fills the shadows and windy places/ With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain . . .

All the Men will be sailors then, untill the sea shall free them.

I am tired of tears and laughter,/ And men that laugh and weep;/ Of what may come hereafter/ For men that sow and reap.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.