About the poet:
John Masefield, (born June 1, 1878, Ledbury, Herefordshire, Eng.—died May 12, 1967, near Abingdon, Berkshire), poet, best known for his poems of the sea, Salt-Water Ballads (1902, including “Sea Fever” and “Cargoes”), and for his long narrative poems, such as The Everlasting Mercy (1911), which shocked literary orthodoxy with its phrases of a colloquial coarseness hitherto unknown in 20th-century English verse.
Educated at King’s School, Warwick, Masefield was apprenticed aboard a windjammer that sailed around Cape Horn. He left the sea after that voyage and spent several years living precariously in the United States. His work there in a carpet factory is described in his autobiography, In the Mill (1941). He returned to England, worked for a time as a journalist for the Manchester Guardian, and settled in London. After he succeeded Robert Bridges as poet laureate in 1930, his poetry became more austere.
Other of Masefield’s long narrative poems are Dauber (1913), which concerns the eternal struggle of the visionary against ignorance and materialism, and Reynard the Fox (1919), which deals with many aspects of rural life in England. He also wrote novels of adventure—Sard Harker (1924), Odtaa (1926), and Basilissa (1940)—sketches, and works for children. His other works include the poetic dramas The Tragedy of Nan (1909) and The Tragedy of Pompey the Great (1910), as well as a further autobiographical volume, So Long to Learn (1952). Masefield was awarded the Order of Merit in 1935.
This article was most recently revised and updated by Amy Tikkanen, Corrections Manager.
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.