State Are Not Made, Nor Patched; They

Off Cape Horn There Are But Two Kinds Of Weather, Neither One Of Them A Pleasant Kind.

From '41 To '51i Was My Folk's Contrary Son;i Bit My Father's Hand Right Throughand Broke My Mother's Heart In Two.

But He Has Gone, A Nation's Memory And Veneration, Among The Radiant, Ever Venturing On, Somewhere, With Morning, As Such Spirits Will.

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.

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.