As With Ships, So With

It Is The Horrible Texture Of A Fabric That Should Be Woven Of Ships' Cables And Hawsers. A Polar Wind Blows Through It, And Birds Of Prey Hover Over It.

Stay True To The Dreams Of Thy Youth.

The Drama's Done. Why Then Here Does Any One Step Forth? — Because One Did Survive The Wreck.

We Cannot Live Only For Ourselves. A Thousand Fibers Connect Us With Our Fellow Men.

For, As When The Red-cheeked, Dancing Girls, April And May, Trip Home To The Wintry, Misanthropic Woods; Even The Barest, Ruggedest, Most Thunder-cloven Old Oak Will At Least Send Forth Some Few Green Sprouts, To Welcome Such Glad-hearted Visitants . . .