John Masefield

(1 June 1878 – 12 May 1967 / Herefordshire / England)

John Masefield Poems

If you see a poem only with title, it is listed that way because of copyright reasons.
1. Lollingdon Downs Viii 12/31/2002
2. A Night At Dago Tom's 4/3/2010
3. A Pier-Head Chorus 4/3/2010
4. Fragments 4/3/2010
5. Hell's Pavement 4/3/2010
6. Mother Carey (As Told Me By The Bo'sun) 4/3/2010
7. Sonnet Ii 4/3/2010
8. The Golden City Of St. Mary 4/3/2010
9. The Lemmings 4/3/2010
10. A Valediction 4/3/2010
11. The Wild Duck 4/3/2010
12. Twilight 4/3/2010
13. An Epilogue 1/3/2003
14. Seven Poems 4/3/2010
15. One Of The Bo'sun's Yarns 4/3/2010
16. Sea Change 1/3/2003
17. Night Is On The Downland 1/3/2003
18. Trade Winds 12/31/2002
19. A Creed 12/31/2002
20. The Tarry Buccaneer 4/3/2010
21. Captain Stratton's Fancy 1/1/2004
22. The Island Of Skyros 1/3/2003
23. Reynard The Fox - Part 2 4/3/2010
24. The Seekers 12/31/2002
25. Reynard The Fox - Part 1 4/3/2010
26. Sonnet 12/31/2002
27. The Yarn Of The Loch Achray 12/31/2002
28. Dauber 4/3/2010
29. Biography 4/3/2010
30. The Passing Strange 1/3/2003
31. C.L.M. 12/31/2002
32. A Wanderer's Song 12/31/2002
33. Beauty 12/31/2002
34. A Ballad Of John Silver 1/3/2003
35. On Eastnor Knoll 12/31/2002
36. The Wanderer 12/31/2002
37. By A Bier-Side 4/3/2010
38. Laugh And Be Merry 4/3/2010
39. Roadways 12/31/2002
40. The Everlasting Mercy 1/3/2003
Best Poem of John Masefield

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, amythysts,
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, ...

Read the full of Cargoes

On Eastnor Knoll

SILENT are the woods, and the dim green boughs are
Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through
The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy
Calling the cows home.

A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but
Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset
Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on
The misty hill-tops.

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