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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.