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They are calling, calling, Away, come away,

And we know not whence they call; For the song is in our hearts, we hear it night and

day, As the deep tides rise and fall : Oh, Death will never find us in the heart of the wood,

While the hours and the years roll by; We have heard it, we have heard, but we have not

understood, We must wander on together, you and I. The wind may beat upon us, the rain may blind

our eyes, The leaves may fall beneath the winter's wing; But we shall hear the music of the dream that never

dies; And we shall know the secret of the spring; We shall know how all the blossoms of evil and of

good Are mingled in the meadows of the sky; And then - if Death can find us in the heart of

the wood, We shall wander on together, you and I.

Alfred Noyes


THE WEST WIND It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes; For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in the west wind, and daffodils. It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as

mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like

wine. There is cool green grass there, where men may lie

at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the



“Will you not come home, brother? You have been

long away: It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray: And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain. Will you not come home, brother, home to us

again? The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits

run; It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's

brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring

again. Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the

green wheat, So will you not come home, brother, and rest your

tired feet? I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for

aching eyes,". Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds'

cries. It's the white road westwards is the road I must

tread To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart

and head, To the violets and the brown brooks and the

thrushes' song In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.

John Masefield


THE GOLDEN CITY OF ST. MARY Out beyond the sunset, could I but find the way, Is a sleepy blue laguna which widens to a bay, And there's the Blessed City — so the sailors say

The Golden City of St. Mary.

It's built of fair marble - white - without a stain, And in the cool twilight when the sea-winds wane The bells chime faintly, like a soft, warm rain,

In the Golden City of St. Mary. Among the green palm-trees where the fire-flies

shine, Are the white tavern tables where the gallants dine, Singing slow Spanish songs like old mulled wine,

In the Golden City of St. Mary. Oh I'll be shipping sunset-wards and westward

ho Through the green toppling combers a-shattering

into snow, Till I come to quiet moorings and a watch below, In the Golden City of St. Mary.

John Masefield


One road leads to London,

One road runs to Wales,
My road leads me seawards

To the white dipping sails.
One road leads to the river,

As it goes singing slow;
My road leads to shipping,

Where the bronzed sailors go.
Leads me, lures me, calls me

To salt green tossing sea;
A road without earth's road-dust

Is the right road for me.
A wet road heaving, shining,

And wild with seagull's cries,
A mad salt sea-wind blowing

The salt spray in my eyes.

My road calls me, lures me

West, east, south, and north;
Most roads lead men homewards,

My road leads me forth

To add more miles to the tally

Of grey miles left behind
In quest of that one beauty
God put me here to find.

John Masefield


SEA-FEVER 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


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.

John Masefield



I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles

made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the

honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes

dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of morning to where the

cricket sings; There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon purple

glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by

the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements

gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

William Butler Yeats

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