[Michael Cantor]

Sea Fever
by John Masefield

I must go 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 go 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 go 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.


From Salt-Water Ballads (London: G. Richards, 1902).


Comments:

Even though this poem describes a life to which I don’t aspire—the “vagrant” life of a sailor—I am completely taken by both the music of the poem and its expression of an unabashed addiction to the sea. A long walk on the beach is more my speed, but I do feel the visceral pull of the ocean expressed so well in this easily appreciated poem.

Several specific word choices make a huge impact here. The word “must,” in the first line of each stanza, is essential; the urge is more than a mere “want.” The alliterative, onomatopoetic w’s of line three are full of motion. Later w’s echo that effect, with “wild,” “windy,” and “white” in the second stanza, and the alliterative second line of the third stanza, where the wind’s “song” has become a “whetted knife.” (The speaker makes it clear that his attachment to the sea does not shrink before the harsher winds, or the “grey” face of the sea.) And the last line offers an ordinary but inviting perspective on death—“quiet sleep and a sweet dream”—with the final phrase both philosophical and lighthearted: “when the last trick’s over.”

The regular, rollicking rhythm begs to be read aloud, and feminine rhymes in the second half of each stanza further the energetic momentum. The repetition of “And all I ask”—another “refrain” element that makes the poem irresistible for reading aloud—also reinforces the strength of the addiction, while making it human-sized rather than profound, even in the face of the infinite sea. (Can’t I be granted just this one request, just this one treat?)

Not surprisingly, the poem has been set to music more than once. A musical setting doesn’t necessarily do a poem any favors, but Amy Beach’s moving version, for male chorus and piano, actually does this one justice, underscoring much of what I enjoy in the poem.