The Project Gutenberg eBook of Selected Poems

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Title: Selected Poems

Author: John Masefield

Release date: February 1, 2020 [eBook #61286]
Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS ***

Selected Poems

By
John Masefield

Selected Poems from The Indian Love Lyrics of Laurence Hope. F’cap 8vo. Cloth, 5s.; leather, 7s. 6d.

Selections from Swinburne, edited by Edmund Gosse, C.B., and T. J. Wise. Cr. 8vo. 6s. net.

The Works of Swinburne, Golden Pine Edition. In 6 vols. F’cap 8vo. Cloth, 4s.; leather, 6s. each.

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, LTD.

 
 

[Image unavailable: Portrait of John Masefield by W. Strang dated Jan 1912

(W. Strang
Jan 1912
John Masefield.)

Selected Poems

By
John Masefield


LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, LTD.

 

Printed in Great Britain.


TO

MY   WIFE

 
 

CONTENTS

 PAGE
From Salt Water Ballads—
Trade Winds1
Sea-fever2
Prayer3
The West Wind4
From Poems and Ballads—
Cargoes5
An Old Song Re-sung6
Twilight7
Invocation8
A Creed8
When Bony Death10
The Death Rooms10
C. L. M.11
Waste12
The Wild Duck13
From Pompey the Great—
Chorus14
Epilogue15
From The Everlasting Mercy—
The Scallenge16
Epilogue18
From The Widow in the Bye Street—
The End19
From Dauber—
The Setting of the Watch22
The Watch Below23
The Horn26
The South-west Wind29
We therefore commit our Brother33
From Philip the King—
The Messenger’s Speech63
Truth76
The “Wanderer”77
August, 191488
Biography91
Ships104
Sonnet on the Death of his Wife108
They closed her Eyes109
From Good Friday—
The Madman Speaks113
From Lollingdon Downs—
Sonnets117
From Gallipoli—
Epilogue136
From Enslaved—
Prologue152
The End154
The Hounds of Hell162
Animula186
Forget193
On Growing Old194
From Esther—
Choruses205
Act II209

 

The books from which these selections are taken are published by the following firms, to whom the author makes the usual acknowledgments:—

Salt Water BalladsMessrs. Elkin Mathews, Ltd.
Poems and Ballads””
Pompey the GreatMessrs. Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd.
The Everlasting Mercy””
The Widow in the Bye Street” ”
DauberMessrs. William Heinemann, Ltd.
The Daffodil Fields” ”
Philip the King” ”
Gallipoli” ”
Good Friday” ”
Lollingdon Downs” ”
Reynard the Fox” ”
Enslaved” ”
Right Royal” ”
Esther” ”

 

 

Selections from

SALT-WATER BALLADS

TRADE WINDS

In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,
 Are the tiny white houses and the orange-trees,
 And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze
 Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale,
 The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt’s tale,
 The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sail
 Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
And at nights there’s fire-flies and the yellow moon,
 And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tune
 Of the quiet voice calling me, the long low croon
 Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.

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 grey 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 life,
 To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
 And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
 And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

PRAYER

When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted,
 When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored,
 When the last fire is out and the last guest departed,
 Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, Be good to me, O Lord!
And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder,
 In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar;
 Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me under
 To the cold tunny-fishes’ home where the drowned galleons are.
And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing,
 Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foam
 About the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steering
 Towards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home.

THE WEST WIND

It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;
 I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
 For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,
 And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.
It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
 Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine.
 There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,
 And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
“Will you not come home, brother? you have been long away,
 It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the spray;
 And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,
 Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?
The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run,
 It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain,
 To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
 So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
 I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,”
 Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries.

Selections from

POEMS AND BALLADS

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, amethysts,
 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, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

AN OLD SONG RE-SUNG

I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing,
 With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold;
 And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing,
 Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold;
 The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled.
I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering,
 With roses in red thread worked upon her sails;
 With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering,
 Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales,
 Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails.
I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking,
 With glittering sea-water splashing on her decks,
 With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking,
 Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks,
 The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the wrecks.

TWILIGHT

Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call.
 Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all,
 There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end,
 Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.
I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past,
 Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last;
 Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled,
 Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.

INVOCATION

O wanderer into many brains,
 O spark the emperor’s purple hides,
 You sow the dusk with fiery grains
 When the gold horseman rides.
 O beauty on the darkness hurled,
 Be it through me you shame the world.

A CREED

I held that when a person dies
 His soul returns again to earth;
 Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise
 Another mother gives him birth.
 With sturdier limbs and brighter brain
 The old soul takes the roads again.
Such was my own belief and trust;
 This hand, this hand that holds the pen,
 Has many a hundred times been dust
 And turned, as dust, to dust again;
 These eyes of mine have blinked and shone
 In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.
All that I rightly think or do,
 Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,
 Is curse or blessing justly due
 For sloth or effort in the past.
 My life’s a statement of the sum
 Of vice indulged, or overcome.
I know that in my lives to be
 My sorry heart will ache and burn,
 And worship, unavailingly,
 The woman whom I used to spurn,
 And shake to see another have
 The love I spurned, the love she gave.
And I shall know, in angry words,
 In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,
 A carrion flock of homing-birds,
 The gibes and scorns I uttered here.
 The brave word that I failed to speak
 Will brand me dastard on the cheek.
And as I wander on the roads
 I shall be helped and healed and blessed;
 Dear words shall cheer and be as goads
 To urge to heights before unguessed.
 My road shall be the road I made;
 All that I gave shall be repaid.
So shall I fight, so shall I tread,
 In this long war beneath the stars;
 So shall a glory wreathe my head,
 So shall I faint and show the scars,
 Until this case, this clogging mould,
 Be smithied all to kingly gold.

WHEN BONY DEATH

When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood,
 And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,
 And changed her glorious beauty into mud
 By his old skill in hateful wizardries;
When an old lichened marble strives to tell
 How sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers;
 When rheumy grey-beards say, “I knew her well,”
 Showing the grave to curious worshippers;
When all the roses that she sowed in me
 Have dripped their crimson petals and decayed,
 Leaving no greenery on any tree
 That her dear hands in my heart’s garden laid,
Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull,
 These songs may keep her memory beautiful.

THE DEATH ROOMS

My soul has many an old decaying room
 Hung with the ragged arras of the past,
 Where startled faces flicker in the gloom,
 And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.
Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death,
 A something like a worm gnawing a brain,
 That bids me heed what bitter lesson saith
 The blind wind beating on the widow-pane.
None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can:
 I pass them through at night with hidden head;
 Lock’d rotting rooms her eyes must never scan,
 Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.
Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know,
 Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.

C. L. M.

In the dark womb where I began
 My mother’s life made me a man.
 Through all the months of human birth
 Her beauty fed my common earth.
 I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,
 But through the death of some of her.
Down in the darkness of the grave
 She cannot see the life she gave.
 For all her love, she cannot tell
 Whether I use it ill or well,
Nor knock at dusty doors to find
 Her beauty dusty in the mind.
If the grave’s gates could be undone,
 She would not know her little son,
 I am so grown. If we should meet
 She would pass by me in the street,
 Unless my soul’s face let her see
 My sense of what she did for me.
What have I done to keep in mind
 My debt to her and womankind?
 What woman’s happier life repays
 Her for those months of wretched days?
 For all my mouthless body leeched
 Ere Birth’s releasing hell was reached?
What have I done, or tried, or said
 In thanks to that dear woman dead?
 Men triumph over women still,
 Men trample women’s rights at will,
 And man’s lust roves the world untamed.
 * * * *
 O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.

WASTE

No rose but fades: no glory but must pass:
 No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.
 Her beauty must go underneath the grass,
 Under the long roots of the violets.
O, many glowing beauties Time has hid
 In that dark, blotting box the villain sends.
 He covers over with a coffin-lid
 Mothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.
Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned,
 Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay.
 All are as blossoms blowing down the wind,
 Things the old envious villain sweeps away.
And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll,
 Death brings another April to the soul.

THE WILD DUCK

Twilight; red in the west;
 Dimness; a glow on the wood.
 The teams plod home to rest.
 The wild duck come to glean.
 O souls not understood,
 What a wild cry in the pool;
 What things have the farm ducks seen
 That they cry so, huddle and cry?
 Only the soul that goes,
 Eager, eager, flying,
 Over the globe of the moon,
 Over the wood that glows;
Wings linked; necks a-strain,
 A rush and a wild crying.
 * * * *
 A cry of the long pain
 In the reeds of a steel lagoon
 In a land that no man knows.

Selections from

POMPEY THE GREAT

Chorus

Man is a sacred city, built of marvellous earth.
 Life was lived nobly here to give this body birth.
 Something was in this brain and in this eager hand.
 Death is so dumb and blind, Death cannot understand.
 Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs’ glory.
 Death makes women a dream and men a traveller’s story,
 Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky,
 Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.

Chorus

Kneel to the beautiful women who bear us this strange brave fruit.
 Man with his soul so noble: man half god and half brute.
Women bear him in pain that he may bring them tears.
 He is a king on earth, he rules for a term of years.
 And the conqueror’s prize is dust and lost endeavour.
 And the beaten man becomes a story for ever.
 For the gods employ strange means to bring their will to be.
 We are in the wise gods’ hands and more we cannot see.

Epilogue

And all their passionate hearts are dust,
 And dust the great idea that burned
 In various flames of love and lust
 Till the world’s brain was turned.
God, moving darkly in men’s brains,
 Using their passions as his tool,
 Brings freedom with a tyrant’s chains
 And wisdom with the fool.
Blindly and bloodily we drift,
 Our interests clog our hearts with dreams,
 God make my brooding soul a rift
 Through which a meaning gleams.

Selections from

THE EVERLASTING MERCY

THE SCALLENGE

The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk,
 It made the limestone look like chalk.
 It was too late for any people,
 Twelve struck as we went by the steeple.
 A dog barked, and an owl was calling,
 The squire’s brook was still a-falling,
 The carved heads on the church looked down
 On “Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,”
 And all the graves of all the ghosts
 Who rise on Christmas Eve in hosts
 To dance and carol in festivity
 For joy of Jesus Christ’s Nativity
 (Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sons
 Beheld ’em from the bell-tower once),
 Two and two about about
 Singing the end of Advent out.
All the old monks’ singing places
 Glimmered quick with flitting faces,
 Singing anthems, singing hymns
 Under carven cherubims.
 Ringer Dawe aloft could mark
 Faces at the window dark
Crowding, crowding, row on row,
 Till all the Church began to glow.
 The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir,
 All the faces became fire
 Below the eastern window high
 To see Christ’s star come up the sky.
 Then they lifted hands and turned,
 And all their lifted fingers burned,
 Burned like the golden altar tallows,
 Burned like a troop of God’s own Hallows,
 Bringing to mind the burning time
 When all the bells will rock and chime
 And burning saints on burning horses
 Will sweep the planets from their courses
 And loose the stars to burn up night.
 Lord, give us eyes to bear the light.
We all went quiet down the Scallenge
 Lest Police Inspector Drew should challenge.
 But ’Spector Drew was sleeping sweet,
 His head upon a charges sheet,
 Under the gas jet flaring full,
 Snorting and snoring like a bull,
 His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing,
 His ugly yellow front teeth showing.
 Just as we peeped we saw him fumble
 And scratch his head, and shift, and mumble.
Down in the lane so thin and dark
 The tan-yards stank of bitter bark,
 The curate’s pigeons gave a flutter,
 A cat went courting down the gutter,
 And none else stirred a foot or feather.
 The houses put their heads together,
 Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly,
 Of all the folk they’d seen go by,
 Children, and men and women, merry all,
 Who’d some day pass that way to burial.

Epilogue