Sometimes the storm winds blow so strong a man has no choice but to furl his sails.
A Storm of SwordsSo easy to go sailing off this road. A wonder more folks didn't. All that space, waiting.
Black RiverThe untold want, by life and land ne'er granted, Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.
Leaves of GrassOn a ship that's made of paper, I would sail the seven seas. (Just to be with you.)
A Ship Made Of Paper