By special request, Sloyne, poems by John Masefield (1878-1967), the English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967, beginning with what is probably his most famous poem, "Sea-Fever."
Sea-Fever
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.
I must 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.
I must 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.
John Masefield
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 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.
And o' nights there's fire-flies and the yellow moon,
And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tune
Of the quiet voice calling me, the long low croon
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
John Masefield
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 the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.
Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street,
To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet;
To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,
Oh I'l be going, going, until I meet the tide.
And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls,
The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,
The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping out,
And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or thereabout.
Oh I am sick of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick,
For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby D*ck;
And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels,
For a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels.
John Masefield
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In an article entitled
"Tall Ship," Time magazine on-line has published an interesting book review of Masefield's
The Wanderer of Liverpool (1930), from the magazine's issue of October 27, 1930. This is a book I recommend as a nice collection of sea poems related to career of the Liverpool steel four-masted barque,
The Wanderer, including a historical narrative on the ship, photographs, and architectural drawings.
The
Time article erroneously states that Masefield was born in Liverpool. He was not. The poet was born in the town of Ledbury, Herefordshire, England, on June 1, 1878. He did though serve as a cadet on the HMS
Conway on the Mersey, rounded Cape Horn as an apprentice aboard the
Gilcruix, was hospitalized with fever in Chile, and later deserted ship and worked his way to New York City. A full biography can be found at
John Masefield.
Chris
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