On the long dusty ribbon of the long city street, The pageant of life is passing me on multitudinous feet, With a word here of the hills, and a song there of the sea And-the great movement changes-the pageant passes… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt Held in cohesion by unresting cells, Which work they know not why, which never halt,… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
Men in a ship are always looking up, and men ashore are usually looking down. — John Masefield Copy Share Image
I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain. — John Masefield Copy Share Image
I must go down to the sea again For the call of the running tide It's a wild call and a clear call that… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
“(...) It,s hard not to be able. There, look there!/ I cannot get the movement nor the light;/Sometimes it almost makes a man despair/To… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood,… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, and the rain, And the watch fire under stars, and sleep, and the road… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
Life's battle is a conquest for the strong; The meaning shows in the defeated thing. — John Masefield Copy Share Image
Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
When the last sea is sailed and last shallow charted, When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored, When the last… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
When Life knocks at the door no one can wait, When Death makes his arrest we have to go. — John Masefield Copy Share Image
God dropped a spark down into everyone, And if we find and fan it to a blaze, It'll spring up and glow, like--like the… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
State are not made, nor patched; they grow; Grow slow through centuries of pain, And grow correctly in the main; But only grow by… — John Masefield Copy Share Image
