Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds shoreward blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away. This way, this way!

What really dissatisfies in American civilisation is the want of the interesting, a want due chiefly to the want of those two great elements of the interesting…

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep.

That which in England we call the middle class is in America virtually the nation.

A cold coming they had of it, at this time of the year; just the worst time of the year to take a journey, and specially a long journey, in.

When I set out for Lyonnesse, A hundred miles away, The rime was on the spray, And starlight lit my lonesomeness.

Now we were standing close to the summit's rim, gazing out into the endless East.