Emerson.    

	And let our barks across the pathless flood
	Hold different courses.

Scott.    

Thomson.    

	Like ships that have gone down at sea,
	When heaven was all tranquillity.

Moore.    

Longfellow.    

Samuel Johnson.    

	Ships that sailed for sunny isles,
	But never came to shore.

Thos. Hervey.    

	She walks the waters like a thing of life,
	And seems to dare the elements to strife.

Byron.    

	She bears her down majestically near,
	Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier.

Byron.    

	A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigged,
	Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
	Instinctively have quit it.

Shakespeare.    

	There’s not a ship that sails the ocean,
	But every climate, every soil,
	Must bring its tribute, great or small,
	And help to build the wooden wall!

Longfellow.    

	Build me straight, O worthy Master!
	Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel
	That shall laugh at all disaster,
	And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!

Longfellow.    

	And the stately ships go on
	To their haven under the hill;
	But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
	And the sound of a voice that is still.

Tennyson.    

	Behold the threaden sails,
	Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,
	Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,
	Breasting the lofty surge.

Shakespeare.    

	Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl’d,
	To furnish and accommodate a world,
	To give the Pole the produce of the sun,
	And knit th’ unsocial climates into one.

Cowper.    

	Upon the gale she stoop’d her side,
	And bounded o’er the swelling tide,
	As she were dancing home;
	The merry seamen laugh’d to see
	Their gallant ship so lustily
	Furrow the green-sea foam.

Scott.    

	The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d thorne,
	Burn’d on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
	Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
	The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver,
	Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
	The water which they beat to follow faster,
	As amorous of their strokes.

Shakespeare.