Poems of John Masefield |
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Common terms and phrases
aloft beat beauty bells birds blind blood blown blue Boatswain Bosun brain bumboat bunk burn burst Caiaphas called Cape Horn Christ clang clipper cold cried Cringled crojick damn dark daub Dauber dead death deck devil door drink drunken earth eyes face felt fire fo'c'sle Frap furl Futtock-shrouds give glittering glory golden birds gone green grey half-deck hand head heard heart heave hell hill Horn Jane Jimmy JOHN MASEFIELD knew lamp light look Lord lovely mast Mate mind never night oilskins pain paint pass Pauntley plough Port Fore Port Mahon Ratlines reefer rolled rope round round-house running rigging rush Saul Saul Kane seaman sennit ship ship's shook singing skysail snow song soul splin square sails staysails stood there's things thought took topsail turned wandering watch wild wind yard yelled
Popular passages
Page 283 - I must 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 and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
Page 281 - 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 Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal...
Page 258 - WHEN I am buried, all my thoughts and acts Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts, And long before this wandering flesh is rotten The dates which made me will be all forgotten ; And none will know the gleam there used to be About the feast days freshly kept by me, But men will call the golden hour of bliss "About this time,
Page 302 - Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.
Page 309 - These homes, this valley spread below me here, The rooks, the tilted stacks, the beasts in pen, Have been the heartfelt things past-speaking dear To unknown generations of dead men, Who, century after century, held these farms, And, looking out to watch the changing sky, Heard, as we hear, the rumours and alarms Of war at hand and danger pressing nigh. And knew, as we know, that the message meant The breaking off of ties, the loss of friends, Death, like a miser getting in his rent, And no new stones...
Page 258 - Men do not heed the rungs by which men climb Those glittering steps, those milestones upon Time, Those tombstones of dead selves, those hours of birth, Those moments of the soul in years of earth They mark the height achieved, the main result, The power of freedom in the perished cult, The power of boredom in the dead man's deeds, Not the bright moments of the sprinkled seeds. By many...
Page 282 - ... Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palmgreen shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
Page 89 - O Christ who holds the open gate, O Christ who drives the furrow straight, O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter Of holy white birds flying after, Lo, all my heart's field red and torn, And Thou wilt bring the young green corn, The young green corn divinely springing, The young green corn forever singing ; And when the field is fresh and fair Thy blessed feet shall glitter there, And we will walk the weeded field, And tell the golden harvest's yield, The corn that makes the holy bread By which...
Page 284 - I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
Page 268 - And see the alley glimmering in the rain, Yet now I miss that sign of earlier tramps A house with shadows of plane-boughs under lamps, The secret house where once a beggar stood Trembling and blind to show his woe for food. And now I miss that friend who used to walk Home to my lodgings with me, deep in talk, Wearing the last of night out in still streets Trodden by us and policemen on their beats And cats, but else deserted; now I miss That lively mind and guttural laugh of his And that strange...