Some Smack Of Age In You, Some

But As The Unthought-on Accident Is Guilty To What We Wildly Do, So We Profess Ourselves To Be The Slaves Of Chance, And Flies Of Every Wind That Blows.

We Do Not Keep The Outward Form Of Order, Where There Is Deep Disorder In The Mind.

Ten Masts Make Not The Altitude Which Thou Hast Perpendicularly Fell. Thy Life's A Miracle.

I Am Sure, Though You Can Guess What Temperance Should Be, You Know Not What It Is.

Behold The Threaden Sails, Borne With The Invisible And Creeping Wind, Draw The Huge Bottoms Through The Furrow'd Sea, Breasting The Lofty Surge