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.

He who travels by sea is nothing but a worm on a piece of wood, a trifle in the midst of a powerful creation. The waters play about with him at will, and no one but God can help him.

The bathing was so delightful this morning, and Molly so pressing with me to enjoy myself, that I believe I stayed in rather too long, as since the middle of the day I have felt unreasonably tired. I shall be more careful another time, and shall not bathe tomorrow as I had before intended.

Of all objects that I have ever seen, there is none which affects my imagination so much as the sea or ocean. A troubled ocean, to a man who sails upon it, is, I think, the biggest object that he can see in motion, and consequently gives his imagination one of the highest kinds of pleasure that can arise from greatness.

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

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.

Tomorrow we take to the mighty sea.

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

Take back your golden fiddles, and we’ll beat to open 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.

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

The life of a sailor is very unhealthy.

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