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

Tewkesbury Road

IT is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,
Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither or why;
Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,
Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.

And to halt at the chattering brook, in a tall green fern at the brink
Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white;
Where the shifty-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to dri

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