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The distant soul can shake the distant friend's soul and make the longing felt, over untold miles.

John Masefield

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John Masefield
Age: 88 †
Born: 1878
Born: June 1
Died: 1967
Died: May 12
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
County of Herefordshire
John Edward Masefield
Distant
Shakes
Longing
Miles
Friend
Felt
Soul
Untold
Make
Shake

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Each one could be a Jesus mild, Each one has been a little child, A little child with laughing look, A lovely white unwritten book A book that God will take, my friend, As each goes out at journey's end.
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And may we find when ended is the page, Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.
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In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.
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God warms his hands at man's heart when he prays.
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I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
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Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French.
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To most of us the future seems unsure. But then it always has been and we who have seen great changes must have great hopes.
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When Life knocks at the door no one can wait, When Death makes his arrest we have to go.
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All I ask is a tall ship and a star to sail her by.
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Love is a flame to burn out human wills, Love is a flame to set the will on fire, Love is a flame to cheat men into mire.
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The three foundations of judgement: Bold Design, Constant Practice, and Frequent Mistakes.
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State are not made, nor patched they grow Grow slow through centuries of pain, And grow correctly in the main But only grow by certain laws, Of certain bits in certain jaws.
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The luck will alter and the star will rise.
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Commonplace people dislike tragedy because they dare not suffer and cannot exult.
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Life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter.
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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 sun, And light the wandering out of stony ways.
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In the dark room where I began My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her.
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So death obscures your gentle form, So memory strives to make the darkness bright And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, Part of the island till the planet ends, My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, Part of this crag this bitter surge offends, While I, who pass, a little obscure thing, War with this force, and breathe, and am its king.
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Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.
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The Lord who gave us Earth and Heaven Takes that as thanks for all He's given. The book he lent is given back All blotted red and smutted black.
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