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. Twilight 4/3/2010
9. The Tarry Buccaneer 4/3/2010
10. A Night At Dago Tom's 4/3/2010
11. A Pier-Head Chorus 4/3/2010
12. Fragments 4/3/2010
13. Hell's Pavement 4/3/2010
14. One Of The Bo'sun's Yarns 4/3/2010
15. Seven Poems 4/3/2010
16. A Valediction 4/3/2010
17. Mother Carey (As Told Me By The Bo'sun) 4/3/2010
18. Laugh And Be Merry 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. Trade Winds 12/31/2002
28. Lollingdon Downs Viii 12/31/2002
29. The Wanderer 12/31/2002
30. Night Is On The Downland 1/3/2003
31. The Everlasting Mercy 1/3/2003
32. An Epilogue 1/3/2003
33. Tewkesbury Road 12/31/2002
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. Beauty 12/31/2002
40. A Wanderer's Song 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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