Life is a long headache in a noisy street.
John Masefield (1878 - 1967)
Contributed by: Zaady
Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.
Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.
In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.
Source: Sea Fever, 1902, st. 3
It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
Source: The West Wind, 1902
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.
Source: Cargoes, st. 1
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smokestack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road rail, pig lead, Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays.
Source: Cargoes, st. 3
But he has gone, A nation's memory and veneration, Among the radiant, ever venturing on, Somewhere, with morning, as such spirits will.
Source: On the Finish of the Sailing Ship Race Lisbon to Manhattan, 1964
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.
Source: Sea Fever, 1902, st. 2
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 gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking.
Source: Sea Fever, 1902, st. 1
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