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
Cargoes
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