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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.

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
Humans
Mire
Men
Wills
Love
Flame
Life
Cheat
Burn
Flames
Fire
Human

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And may we find when ended is the page, Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.
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Life's battle is a conquest for the strong The meaning shows in the defeated thing.
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Man with his burning soul Has but an hour of breath To build a ship of Truth In which his soul may sail- Sail on the sea of death. For death takes toll Of beauty, courage, youth, Of all but Truth.
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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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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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Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French.
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Man's body is faulty, his mind untrustworthy, but his imagination has made him remarkable.
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The social states of human kinds Are made by multitudes of minds, And after multitudes of years A little human growth appears Worth having, even to the soul Who sees most plain it's not the whole.
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Off Cape Horn there are but two kinds of weather, neither one of them a pleasant kind.
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The distant soul can shake the distant friend's soul and make the longing felt, over untold miles.
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I have seen flowers come in stony places And kind things done by men with ugly faces, And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races, So I trust, too.
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Most roads lead men homewards, My road leads me forth
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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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I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain.
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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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On the long dusty ribbon of the long city street, The pageant of life is passing me on multitudinous feet, With a word here of the hills, and a song there of the sea And-the great movement changes-the pageant passes me.
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It ought to have gangsters, and aeroplanes and a lot of automatic pistols.
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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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The luck will alter and the star will rise.
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But he has gone, A nation's memory and veneration, Among the radiant, ever venturing on, Somewhere, with morning, as such spirits will.
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