It May Be That We

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.

In The Power And Splendor Of The Universe, Inspiration Waits For The Millions To Come. Man Has Only To Strive For It. Poems Greater Than The Iliad, Plays Greater Than Macbeth, Stories More Engaging Than Don Quixote Await Their Seeker And Finder.

I Must Go Down To The Sea Again For The Call Of The Running Tide It's A Wild Call And A Clear Call That May Not Be Denied.

In The Dark Room Where I Began My Mother's Life Made Me A Man. Through All The Months Of Human Birth Her Beauty Fed My Common Earth. I Cannot See, Nor Breathe, Nor Stir, But Through The Death Of Some Of Her.

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