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

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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