The Story of a Round-house: And Other Poems |
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aloft beat beauty bells birds blowing blue boat bosun bows brain bright bunk burgoo burst called Cape Horn captain clanging clipper cold Countess Cathleen crojick dark Dauber daubs dawn dead dear death deck dripping drowned eyes farm father felt footrope Frap frozen futtock-shrouds gleam glittering glow golden gone grass green grey grey dawn half-deck hands heart Heave hell Henry Morgan hush JOHN MASEFIELD lamp Laugh light look man's mast mate of Henry mind never night oilskins old bold mate paint passed play Port Fore Port Mahon Port of Holy rain reefers road rolled rose roundhouse sail Salcombe seaman sennit ship ship's shook singing skysail snow song soul Spanish spoiled stars staysails strange sweet tell There's things thought topsail town trembling Warwick Goble watch William Butler Yeats wind wind's yard yelled
Popular passages
Page 311 - 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, But through the death of some of her. Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind. If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should...
Page 307 - 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 fellowrover, And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
Page 268 - ROADWAYS One road leads to London, One road runs to Wales, My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails. One road leads to the river, As it goes singing slow ; My road leads to shipping, Where the bronzed sailors go. Leads me, lures me, calls me To salt green tossing sea ; A road without earth's road-dust Is the right road for me. A wet road heaving, shining, And wild with seagulls' cries, A mad salt sea-wind blowing The salt spray in my eyes.
Page 241 - 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 269 - And wild with seagull's cries, A mad salt sea-wind blowing The salt spray in my eyes. My road calls me, lures me West, east, south, and north; Most roads lead men homewards, My road leads me forth To add more miles to the tally Of grey miles left behind, In quest of that one beauty God put me here to find.
Page 240 - 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 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...
Page 301 - 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 306 - I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
Page 243 - For it's that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan. Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung, And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue; But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan. I2S Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice, And some are all for red lips, and pretty lasses' eyes; But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize To the old bold mate of...
Page 226 - I saw the ramparts of my native land, One time so strong, now dropping in decay, Their strength destroyed by this new age's way That has worn out and rotted what was grand. I went into the fields: there I could see The sun drink up the waters newly thawed, And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed; Their miseries robbed the day of light for me.