Quote

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.

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
Law
Centuries
State
Slow
Pain
Main
Certain
Laws
States
Grow
Government
Century
Patched
Made
Bits
Jaws
Grows
Correctly

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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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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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O lovely lily clean, O lily springing green, O lily bursting white, Dear lily of delight, Spring in my heart agen That I may flower to men.
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Most roads lead men homewards, My road leads me forth
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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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All the great things of life are swiftly done, Creation, death, and love the double gate. However much we dawdle in the sun We have to hurry at the touch of Fate.
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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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When the last sea is sailed and last shallow charted, When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored, When the last fire is out and the last guest departed Grant the last prayer that I pray, Be good to me, O Lord.
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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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The three foundations of judgement: Bold Design, Constant Practice, and Frequent Mistakes.
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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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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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Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.
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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.
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I must go down to the sea again For the call of the running tide It's a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.
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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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Life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter.
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Life's battle is a conquest for the strong The meaning shows in the defeated thing.
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Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man it has become the amusement and delight of the few.
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In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.
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