JOHN MASEFIELD

 

*

Sea-Fever

 

I must 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 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 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.

 

*

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 palmgreen 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.

 

*

A Wanderer’s Song

 

A wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels,

I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;

I hunger for the sea’s edge, the limits of the land,

Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.

 

Oh I’ll be going, leaving the noises of the street,

To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet;

To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,

Oh I’ll be going, going, until I meet the tide.

 

And first I’ll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls.

The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,

The songs at the capstan in the hooker warping out,

And then the heart of me’ll know I’m there or thereabout.

 

Oh I am tired of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick.

For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick;

And I’ll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels,

For a wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels.