The luck will alter and the star will rise.

Love is a flame to burn out human wills,

Love is a flame to set the will on fire,

Love is a flame to cheat men into mire.

In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.

God dropped a spark down into everyone, And if we find and fan it to a blaze, It'll spring up and glow, like -- like the sun, And light the wandering out of stony ways.

Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.

Off Cape Horn there are but two kinds of weather, neither one of them a pleasant kind.

Each one could be a Jesus mild,

Each one has been a little child,

A little child with laughing look,

A lovely white unwritten book;

A book that God will take, my friend,

As each goes out at journey's end.

I have seen the Lady April bringing the daffodils, bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.

So shall I fight, so shall I tread,

In this long war beneath the stars;

So shall a glory wreathe my head,

So shall I faint and show the scars,

Until this case, this clogging mould,

Be smithied all to kingly gold.

I have seen flowers come in stony places

And kind things done by men with ugly faces,

And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races,

So I trust, too.

But he has gone, A nation's memory and veneration, Among the radiant, ever venturing on, Somewhere, with morning, as such spirits will.

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.

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.

The truth and rapture of man are holy things, not lightly to be scorned. A carelessness of life and beauty mark the glutton, the idler, and the fool in their deadly path across history.

But Time and Tide and Buttered Eggs wait for no man.

Men in a ship are always looking up, and men ashore are usually looking down.

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.

I have seen flowers come in stony places
And kind things done by men with ugly faces,
And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races,
So I trust, too.

It is too maddening. I've got to fly off, right now, to some devilish navy yard, 3 hours in a seasick steamer, and after being heartily sick, I'll have to speak 3 times, and then be sick coming home. Still, who would not be sick for England?

Most roads lead men homewards, My road leads me forth.