But look, our seas are what we make of them, full of fish or not, opaque or transparent, red or black, high or smooth, narrow or bankless—and we are ourselves sea, sand, coral, seaweed, beaches, tides, swimmers, children, waves.

All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full.

Seafarers go to sleep in the evening not knowing whether they will find themselves at the bottom of the sea the next morning.

Alone, alone, all, all alone, / Alone on a wide, wide sea!

Why is a ship under sail more poetical than a hog in a high wind? The hog is all nature, the ship is all art.

Many, many steeples would have to be stacked one on top of another to reach from the bottom to the surface of the sea. It is down there that the sea folk live.

We are as near to heaven by sea as by land!

You never enjoy the world aright, till the sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens, and crowned with the stars.

Ocean. A body of water occupying about two-thirds of a world made for man—who has no gills.

I’ve been bathing in the poem / Of star-infused and milky sea / Devouring the azure greens.

It is He who has subdued the ocean so that you may eat of its fresh fish and bring up from its depth ornaments to wear. Behold the ships plowing their course through it. All this, that you may seek His bounty and render thanks.

The power which the sea requires in the sailor makes a man of him very fast, and the change of shores and population clears his head of much nonsense of his wigwam.

We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea—whether it is to sail or to watch it—we are going back whence we came.