The Wild Duck by John Masefield COMPLIMENTS OF WIKISOURCE 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. Christmas (1903) by John Masefield O, the sea breeze will be steady, and the tall ships going trim, And the dark blue skies are paling, and the white stars burning dim; The long night watch is over, and the long sea-roving done, And yonder light is the Start Point light, and yonder comes the sun. O, we have been with the Spaniards, and far and long on the sea; But there are the twisted chimneys, and the gnarled old inns on the quay. The wind blows keen as the day breaks, the roofs are white with the rime, And the church-bells ring as the sun comes up to call men in to Prime. The church-bells rock and jangle, and there is peace on the earth. Peace and good will and plenty and Christmas games and mirth. O, the gold glints bright on the wind-vane as it shifts above the squires house, And the water of the bar of Salcombe is muttering about the bows. O, the salt sea tide of Salcombe, it wrinkles into wisps of foam, And the church-bells ring in Salcombe to ring poor sailors home. The belfry rocks as the bells ring, the chimes are merry as a song, They ring home wandering sailors who have been homeless long. Bill (1902) by John Masefield He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared at the cold skies, With never a friend to mourn for him nor a hand to close his eyes: Bill, hes dead, was all they said; hes dead, n there he lies. The mate came forrard at seven bells and spat across the rail: Just lash him up wi some holystone in a clout o rotten sail, N, rot ye, get a gait on ye, yere slowern a bloody snail! When the rising moon was a copper disc and the sea was a strip of steel, We dumped him down to the swaying weeds ten fathom beneath the keel. Its rough about Bill, the focsle said, well have to stand his wheel. A Pier-Head Chorus by John Masefield Oh Ill be chewing salted horse and biting flinty bread, And dancing with the stars to watch, upon the focsle head, Hearkening to the bow-wash and the welter of the tread Of a thousand tons of clipper running free. For the tug has got the tow-rope and will take us to the Downs, Her paddles churn the river-wrack to muddy greens and browns, And I have given river-wrack and all the filth of towns For the rolling, combing cresters of the sea. Well sheet the mizzen-royals home and shimmer down the Bay, The sea-line blue with billows, the land-line blurred and grey; The bow-wash will be piling high and thrashing into spray, As the hookers fore-foot tramples down the swell. Shell log a giddy seventeen and rattle out the reel, The weight of all the run-out line will be a thing to feel, As the bacca-quidding shell-back shambles aft to take the wheel, And the sea-sick little middy strikes the bell.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 19:43:45 +0000
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