Poems by John Masefield

All Poems Original Poems Translations

« ‹ 1 2 3 4 › »

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,

As it goes singing slow;

My road leads to shipping,

Where the bronzed sailors go.

by John Masefield

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 'n' start her, heave 'n' pawl!"

by John Masefield

Trade Winds

In the harbour, 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 is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale,

The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt's tale,

The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sail

Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.

by John Masefield

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 cold for loving.

I take the book and gather to the fire,

Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute

The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,

Moves a thiun ghost of music in the spinet.

by John Masefield

A Pier-Head Chorus

Oh I'll be chewing salted horse and biting flinty bread,

And dancing with the stars to watch, upon the fo'c's'le head,

Hearkening to the bow-wash and the welter of the tread

Of a thousand tons of clipper running free.

For the tug has got the tow-rope and will take us to the Downs,

Her paddles churn the river-wrack to muddy greens and browns,

And I have given river-wrack and all the filth of towns

For the rolling, combing cresters of the sea.

by John Masefield

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 road again.

Such is my own belief and trust;

This hand, this hand that holds the pen,

by John Masefield

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.

We trod the same path, to the selfsame place,

Yet here I stand, having beheld their graves,

Skyros whose shadows the great seas erase,

And Seddul Bahr that ever more blood craves.

by John Masefield

An Epilogue

I have 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,

So I trust, too.

by 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 old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French,

And some’ll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench;

But I’m for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench,

Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

by John Masefield

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 her, but a friend, since drowned,

Drew her, with painted ports, low, lovely, lean,

by John Masefield

Dauber

Four bells were struck, the watch was called on deck,

All work aboard was over for the hour,

And some men sang and others played at check,

Or mended clothes or watched the sunset glower.

The bursting west was like an opening flower,

And one man watched it till the light was dim,

But no one went across to talk to him.

by John Masefield

Hell's Pavement

“When I’m discharged at Liverpool ‘n’ draws my bit o’ pay,

I won’t come to sea no more;

I’ll court a pretty little lass ‘n’ have a weddin’ day,

‘N’ settle somewhere down shore;

I’ll never fare to sea again a-temptin’ Davy Jones,

A-hearkening to the cruel sharks a-hungerin’ for my bones;

I’ll run a blushin’ dairy-farm or go a-crackin’ stones,

Or buy ‘n’ keep a little liquor-store” &mdash

by John Masefield