John Masefield

Captain Stratton's Fancy

OH some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white, And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight; But rum alone’s the tipple, and the heart’s delight Of the

C. L. M

IN the dark womb where I began My mother’s life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,

The Island of Skyros

Here, where we stood together, we three men, Before the war had swept us to the East Three thousand miles away, I stand again And hear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast.

Trade Winds

IN the harbor, in the island, in the Spanish Seas, Are the tiny white houses and the orange trees, And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze Of the steady Trade Winds blowing. There

Lollingdon Downs VIII

THE Kings go by with jewled crowns; Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many. The sack of many-peopled towns Is all their dream: The way they take Leaves but a ruin

The West Wind

IT’S a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills.

The Seekers

FRIENDS and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blessed abode, But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road. Not for us are content, and quiet, and

Tewkesbury Road

IT is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither or why; Through the grey light drift of the dust,

Roadways

ONE road leads to London, One road leads to Wales, My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails. One road leads to the river, And it goes singing slow; My road leads

A Creed

I HOLD that when a person dies His soul returns again to earth; Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise Another mother gives him birth. With sturdier limbs and brighter brain The old soul takes the

The Wanderer

ALL day they loitered by the resting ships, Telling their beauties over, taking stock; At night the verdict left my messmate’s lips, “The Wanderer is the finest ship in dock.” I had not seen

A Ballad of John Silver

We were schooner-rigged and rakish, With a long and lissome hull, And we flew the pretty colours of the crossbones and the skull; We’d a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the fore,

The Passing Strange

Out of the earth to rest or range Perpetual in perpetual change, The unknown passing through the strange. Water and saltness held together To tread the dust and stand the weather, And plough the

The Yarn of the Loch Achray

The Loch Achray was a clipper tall With seven-and-twenty hands in all. Twenty to hand and reef and haul, A skipper to sail and mates to bawl ‘Tally on to the tackle-fall, Heave now

QUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the

A Wanderer's Song

A WIND’S in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels, I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels; I hunger for the sea’s edge, the limit of the land, Where

Sonnet

FLESH, I have knocked at many a dusty door, Gone down full many a midnight lane, Probed in old walls and felt along the floor, Pressed in blind hope the lighted window-pane, But useless

On Growing Old

Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying; My dog and I are old, too old for roving. Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying, Is soon too lame to march, too

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick

Night Is On The Downland

Night is on the downland, on the lonely moorland, On the hills where the wind goes over sheep-bitten turf, Where the bent grass beats upon the unplowed poorland And the pine-woods roar like the

Beauty

I HAVE seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain: I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils, Bringing the springing grass

Sea Change

“Goneys an’ gullies an’ all o’ the birds o’ the sea They ain’t no birds, not really”, said Billy the Dane. “Not mollies, nor gullies, nor goneys at all”, said he, “But simply the

The Everlasting Mercy

Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys cleer, Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse, Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer, For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise. John Lydgate.

On Eastnor Knoll

SILENT are the woods, and the dim green boughs are Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy Calling the cows home. A bright white star

An Epilogue

I had seen flowers come in stony places And kind things done by men with ugly faces, And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races, Ao I trust, too.