To Be Filled With The Knowledge Of God's Glory Is To Be As The Water Cover The Sea

I discovered the secret of the sea in meditation upon the dew drop.

The sea makes no promises and breaks none.

It's hard to bullshit the ocean. It's not listening, you know what I mean.

I hate to be near the sea, and to hear it raging and roaring like a wild beast in its den. It puts me in mind of the everlasting efforts of the human mind, struggling to be free and ending just where it began.

The thing itself is dirty, wobbly and wet.

There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea, and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates.

Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.

Consider the sea's listless chime: Time's self it is, made audible.

Implacable I, the implacable Sea; Implacable most when most I smile serene- Pleased, not appeased, by myriad wrecks in me.

To Gold, the smell of the sea at Sheepshead Bay was a powerful call to clams on the half shell, shrimp, lobster or broiled flounder or bass.

The sea-this truth must be confessed-has no generosity. No display of manly qualities-courage, hardihood, endurance, faithfulness-has ever been known to touch its irresponsible consciousness of power.

For all that has been said of the love that certain natures (on shore) have professed to feel for it, for all the celebrations it has been the object of in prose and song, the sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness.

It is a curious situation that the sea, from which life first arose, should now be threatened by the activities of one form of that life. But the sea, though changed in a sinister way, will continue to exist; the threat is rather to life itself.

Little islands are all large prisons: one cannot look at the sea without wishing for the wings of a swallow.

The seas are the hearts blood of the earth. Plucked up and kneaded by the sun and the moon, the tides are systole and diastole of earth's veins.

In the biting honesty of salt, the sea makes her secrets known to those who care to listen.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore.

All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.

The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper; I cannot quite make it out.