John Masefield Quotes
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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?
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It is too maddening. I've got to fly off, right now, to some devilish navy yard, three hours in a seasick steamer, and after being heartily sick, I'll have to speak three times, and then I'll be sick coming home. Still, who would not be sick for England?
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There are few earthly things more beautiful than a university a place where those who hate ignorance may strive to know, where those who perceive truth may strive to make others see.
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Commonplace people dislike tragedy because they dare not suffer and cannot exult.
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And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tuneOf the quiet voice calling me, the long low croonOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.
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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.
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From '41 to '51I was my folk's contrary son;I bit my father's hand right throughAnd broke my mother's heart in two.
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What is this creature, Music, save the Art,The Rhythm that the planets journey by?The living Sun-Ray entering the heart,Touching the Life with that which cannot die?
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Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French,And some’ll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench;But I’m for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench,Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
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The luck will alter and the star will rise.
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I, who am dead, have ways of knowingOf the crop of death that the quick are sowing.I, who was Pompey, cry it aloudFrom the dark of death, from the wind blowing.I, who was Pompey, once was proud,Now I lie in the sand without a shroud;I cry to Caesar out of my pain,'Caesar beware, your death is vowed.'
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The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,There was gear there’d make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town,Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of Spanish crews,Gold doubloons and double moidores, louis d’ors and portagues
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Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the amusement and delight of the few.
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What have I done, or tried, or saidIn 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.
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In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.
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Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.
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Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain.
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In the dark womb where I beganMy mother's life made me a man.Through all the months of human birthHer beauty fed my common earth.I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,But through the death of some of her.
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My blood did leap, my flesh did revel,Saul Kane was tokened to the devil.
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It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.