Heaven To Me's A Fair Blue Stretch

I Must Go Down To The Sea Again, To The Lonely Sea And The Sky; And All I Ask Is A Tall Ship And A Star To Steer Her By.

People Who Leave Their Own Time Out Of Their Work Cannot Be Surprised If Their Time Fails To Find Them Interesting.

The Corn That Makes The Holy Bread By Which The Soul Of Man Is Fed, The Holy Bread, The Food Unpriced, Thy Everlasting Mercy, Christ.

On The Long Dusty Ribbon Of The Long City Street, The Pageant Of Life Is Passing Me On Multitudinous Feet, With A Word Here Of The Hills, And A Song There Of The Sea And-the Great Movement Changes-the Pageant Passes Me.

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries; I Never Hear The West Wind But Tears Are In My Eyes. For It Comes From The West Lands, The Old Brown Hills, And April's In The West Wind, And Daffodils.