Myriad laughter of the ocean waves.
As the ocean giveth rise to springs, whose water return again into its bosom through the rivers, so runneth thy life force from the heart outwards, and so returneth into its place again
Rain, with a silver flail; Sun, with a golden ball; Ocean, wherein the whale swims minnow-small.
OCEAN, n. A body of water occupying about two-thirds of a world made for man — who has no gills.
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
For all that has been said of the love that certain natures (on shore) have professed 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.
For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it's always ourselves we find in the sea.
To me, the sea is like a person - like a child that I've known a long time. It sounds crazy, I know, but when I swim in the sea I talk to it. I never feel alone when I'm out there.
Every time we walk along a beach some ancient urge disturbs us so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war.
I hate to be near the sea, and to hear it roaring and raging 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.
There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea, and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates.
It is only when we are very happy that we can bear to gaze merrily upon the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and on with such persistent, irritating monotony, to the accompaniment of our thoughts, whether grave or gay. When they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety; but when they are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring additional sadness, and to speak to us of hopelessness and of the pettiness of all our joys.
No one would ever have crossed the ocean if he could have gotten off the ship in a storm.
The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
Sponges grow in the ocean. That just kills me. I wonder how much deeper the ocean would be if that didn't happen.
