A wise man, once he is past fifty, does not befuddle his senses with strong drink, nor make violent love in the cool spring night, nor dance on his hands.

I heard wordOf bellied sailcloth,Creak of oars,And gold in Eastland.Then I smelledA smell remembered:Salt of sprayAnd black-pitched boat’s keel.

Mulled ale for the frozen man,And mulled ale for the weary:For mulled ale is the body’s friendAnd makes the sick heart merry.