To him it is an ocean, unfathomable, and without a shore.

I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

Even the upper end of the riverbelieves in the ocean.

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.

The ocean and I have many pebblesTo find and wash off and roll into shape.