One ship drives east and another drives west. With the selfsame winds that blow. Tis the set of the sails. And not the gales. Which tells us the way to go. Like the winds of the seas are the ways of fate, As we voyage along through the life: Tis the set of a soul. That decides its goal, And not the calm or the strife.
Ella Wheeler WilcoxAbout author
- Author's profession: Writer
- Nationality: american
- Born: November 5, 1850
- Died: October 30, 1919
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There's something narcissistic in the phrase "collected poems." Who's collecting them? The poem. How hard is that? That's not a real collection. Now if he had made a collection of water fountains, or of oven mitts, that would be a collection. Or if he'd collected editions of Festus, the long mad poem written somewhere in the nineteenth century by a lost soul named Bailey--that would be an achievement. But collecting your own poems? What's so great about that? And mixing and mingling them in...
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