Man’s heart expands to tinker with his car, For this is Sunday morning, Fate’s great bazaar.
Louis MacNeice, “Sunday Morning”
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but nature more.
Lord Byron, “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”
The dragon-green, the luminous, the dark, the serpent-haunted sea.
James Elroy Flecker, “The Gates of Damascus”
Sir, Saturday morning, although recurring at regular and well-foreseen intervals, always seems to take this railway by surprise.
W. S. Gilbert, letter to station-master at Baker Street
I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart.
