Category: Online Poetry
Poet laureate of Great Britain from 1930 until his death, John Masefield was only 22 years old when he wrote the simple and moving lines in his poem ‘Sea Fever’. Masefield was born on June 1, 1878, in Ledbury, Herefordshire, England. After his father’s death he was looked after by an uncle. Young Masefield wanted to be a merchant marine officer. At 13 he boarded the training ship Conway moored in the river Mersey. After two and a half years on the school ship he was apprenticed aboard a sailing ship that was bound for Chile by way of Cape Horn. In Chile he became ill and had to return to England by steamer. He left the sea and spent several years living in the United States, working chiefly in a carpet factory. At one time, in 1895, to be exact, he worked for a few months as a sort of third assistant bar-keeper and dish-washer in Luke O’Connor’s saloon, the Columbia Hotel, in New York City. The place is still there on the corner of Sixth and Greenwich Avenues. He later wrote about that period of his life in an autobiographical work, ‘In the Mill’, published in 1941.
In 1897 he returned to England determined to succeed as a writer. He worked on newspapers at first. But he never forgot his days at sea. He returned to them again and again in his poems and stories. He wrote about the land too, about typically English things like fox hunting, racing, and outdoor life. In 1902 Masefield published his first volume of poems, ‘Salt-Water Ballads’. After that he wrote steadily poems, stories, and plays. In 1903 he married Constance de la Cherois-Crommelin. They had two children.
In World War I Masefield served in the Red Cross in France and on a hospital ship at Gallipoli. His book ‘Gallipoli’ (1916) is an account of that campaign. He died on May 12, 1967, near Abingdon in Berkshire, England.
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 grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.
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;
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 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.