LOVE.
“There are indeed men whose souls are like the sea. Those billows that ebb and flood, that inexorable going and coming, that noise of all the winds, that blackness and that translucency, that vegetation peculiar to the deep, that democracy of clouds in full hurricane, those eagles flecked with foam, those wonderful star-risings reflected in mysterious agitation by millions of luminous wavetops, confused heads of the multitudinous sea—the errant lightnings, which seem to watch; those prodigious sobbings, those half-seen monsters, those nights of darkness broken by howlings, those furies, those frenzies, those torments, those rocks, those shipwrecks, those fleets crushing each other; then that charm, that mildness, those festivals, those gay white sails, those fishing boats, those songs amid the uproar, those shining ports, those mists rising from the shore; those wraths and those appeasements, that all in one, the unforeseen amid the changeless, the vast marvel of inexhaustibly varied monotony—all this may exist in a mind, and that mind is called genius, and you have Æschylus, you have Isaiah, you have Dante, you have Michael Angelo, you have Shakspere.”
“There are indeed men whose souls are like the sea. Those billows that ebb and flood, that inexorable going and coming, that noise of all the winds, that blackness and that translucency, that vegetation peculiar to the deep, that democracy of clouds in full hurricane, those eagles flecked with foam, those wonderful star-risings reflected in mysterious agitation by millions of luminous wavetops, confused heads of the multitudinous sea—the errant lightnings, which seem to watch; those prodigious sobbings, those half-seen monsters, those nights of darkness broken by howlings, those furies, those frenzies, those torments, those rocks, those shipwrecks, those fleets crushing each other; then that charm, that mildness, those festivals, those gay white sails, those fishing boats, those songs amid the uproar, those shining ports, those mists rising from the shore; those wraths and those appeasements, that all in one, the unforeseen amid the changeless, the vast marvel of inexhaustibly varied monotony—all this may exist in a mind, and that mind is called genius, and you have Æschylus, you have Isaiah, you have Dante, you have Michael Angelo, you have Shakspere.”