Once they tried to steal my heart,
beat it out of my head
Baby they didn't know that I was born dead
I am the iceman, fighting for the right to live
I say better than the glory roads of heaven
Better off riding hell-bound in the dirt
Better than bright line of the freeway
Better than the shadows of your daddy's church
Better than the waiting
Baby, better off is the search

—Bruce Springsteen

It is death for souls to become water,
and death for water to become earth;
and from earth comes water,
and from water soul...


And near him stood the Lady of the Lake,
Who knows a subtler magic than his own —
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.
She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword,
Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist
Of incense curled about her, and her face
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom;
But there was heard among the holy hymns
A voice as of the waters, for she dwells
Down in a deep; calm, whatsoever storms
May shake the world, and when the surface rolls,
Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson :: Idylls of the King

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