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

Sea Fever

I must go 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 gray mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

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.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy ...

Read the full of Sea Fever

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.

[Hata Bildir]