Tried hard to rise, but could not, so they lay,Watching the clouds go sailing on the sky,Touched with a redness from the end of day.There was all April in the blackbird's cry.And lying there they felt they had to die,Die and go under mould and feel no moreApril's green fire of life go running in earth's core."There was no need to hit me," Michael said;"You quiet thinking fellows lose control.This fighting business is a foolish trade.And now we join the grave-worm and the mole.I tried to stop you. You're a crazy soul;You always were hot-headed. Well, let be:You deep and passionate souls have always puzzled me."I'm sorry that I struck you. I was hit,And lashed out blindly at you; you were mad.It would be different if you'd stopped a bit.You are too blind when you are angry, lad.Oh, I am giddy, Lion; dying, bad,Dying." He raised himself, he sat, his lookGrew greedy for the water bubbling in the brook.And as he watched it, Lion raised his head;Out of a bloodied clump of daffodil."Michael," he moaned, "I, too, am dying: dead.You're nearer to the water. Could you fillYour hat and give me drink? Or would it spill?Spill, I expect." "I'll try," said Michael, "try--I may as well die trying, since I have to die."Slowly he forced his body's failing lifeDown to the water; there he stooped and filled;And as his back turned Lion drew his knife,And hid it close, while all his being thrilledTo see, as Michael came, the water spilled,Nearer and ever nearer, bright, so bright."Drink," muttered Michael, "drink. We two shall sleep to-night."He tilted up the hat, and Lion drank.Lion lay still a moment, gathering power,Then rose, as Michael gave him more, and sank.Then, like a dying bird whom death makes tower,He raised himself above the bloodied flowerAnd struck with all his force in Michael's side."You should not have done that," his stricken comrade cried."No; for I meant to tell you, Lion; meantTo tell you; but I cannot now; I die.That hit me to the heart and I am spent.Mary and I have parted; she and IAgreed she must return, lad. That is whyI came to see you. She is coming here,Back to your home to-night. Oh, my beloved dear,"You come to tread a bloody path of flowers.All the gold flowers are covered up with blood,And the bright bugles blow along the towers;The bugles triumph like the Plate in flood."His spilled life trickled down upon the mudBetween weak, clutching fingers. "Oh," he cried,"This isn't what we planned here years ago." He died.Lion lay still while the cold tides of deathCame brimming up his channels. With one handHe groped to know if Michael still drew breath.His little hour was running out its sand.Then, in a mist, he saw his Mary standAbove. He cried aloud, "He was my brother.I was his comrade sworn, and we have killed each other."Oh desolate grief, beloved, and through me.We wise who try to change. Oh, you wild birds,Help my unhappy spirit to the sea.The golden bowl is scattered into sherds."And Mary knelt and murmured passionate wordsTo that poor body on the dabbled flowers:"Oh, beauty, oh, sweet soul, oh, little love of ours--"Michael, my own heart's darling, speak; it's me,Mary. You know my voice. I'm here, dear, here.Oh, little golden-haired one, listen. See,It's Mary, Michael. Speak to Mary, dear.Oh, Michael, little love, he cannot hear;And you have killed him, Lion; he is dead.My little friend, my love, my Michael, golden head."We had such fun together, such sweet fun,My love and I, my merry love and I.Oh, love, you shone upon me like the sun.Oh, Michael, say some little last good-bye."Then in a great voice Lion called, "I die.Go home and tell my people. Mary. Hear.Though I have wrought this ruin, I have loved you, dear."Better than he; not better, dear, as well.If you could kiss me, dearest, at this last.We have made bloody doorways from our hell,Cutting our tangle. Now, the murder past,We are but pitiful poor souls; and fastThe darkness and the cold come. Kiss me, sweet;I loved you all my life; but some lives never meet"Though they go wandering side by side through Time.Kiss me," he cried. She bent, she kissed his brow:"Oh, friend," she said, "you're lying in the slime.""Three blind ones, dear," he murmured, "in the slough,Caught fast for death; but never mind that now;Go home and tell my people. I am dying,Dying, dear, dying now." He died; she left him lying,And kissed her dead one's head and crossed the field."They have been killed," she called, in a great crying."Killed, and our spirits' eyes are all unsealed.The blood is scattered on the flowers drying."It was the hush of dusk, and owls were flying;They hooted as the Occleves ran to bringThat sorry harvest home from Death's red harvesting.They laid the bodies on the bed together.And "You were beautiful," she said, "and youWere my own darling in the April weather.You knew my very soul, you knew, you knew.Oh, my sweet, piteous love, I was not true.Fetch me fair water and the flowers of spring;My love is dead, and I must deck his burying."They left her with her dead; they could not chooseBut grant the spirit burning in her faceRights that their pity urged them to refuse.They did her sorrow and the dead a grace.All night they heard her passing footsteps traceDown to the garden from the room of death.They heard her singing there, lowly, with gentle breath,To the cool darkness full of sleeping flowers,Then back, still singing soft, with quiet tread,But at the dawn her singing gathered powersLike to the dying swan who lifts his headOn Eastnor, lifts it, singing, dabbled red,Singing the glory in his tumbling mind,Before the doors burst in, before death strikes him blind.So triumphing her song of love began,Ringing across the meadows like old woeSweetened by poets to the help of manUnconquered in eternal overthrow;Like a great trumpet from the long agoHer singing towered; all the valley heard.Men jingling down to meadow stopped their teams and stirred.And they, the Occleves, hurried to the door,And burst it, fearing; there the singer layDrooped at her lover's bedside on the floor,Singing her passionate last of life away.White flowers had fallen from a blackthorn sprayOver her loosened hair. Pale flowers of springFilled the white room of death; they covered everything.Primroses, daffodils, and cuckoo-flowers.She bowed her singing head on Michael's breast."Oh, it was sweet," she cried, "that love of ours.You were the dearest, sweet; I loved you best.Beloved, my beloved, let me restBy you forever, little Michael mine.Now the great hour is stricken, and the bread and wine"Broken and spilt; and now the homing birdsDraw to a covert, Michael; I to you.Bury us two together," came her words.The dropping petals fell about the two.Her heart had broken; she was dead. They drewHer gentle head aside; they found it pressedAgainst the broidered 'kerchief spread on Michael's breast,The one that bore her name in Michael's hair,Given so long before. They let her lie,While the dim moon died out upon the air,And happy sunlight coloured all the sky.The last cock crowed for morning; carts went by;Smoke rose from cottage chimneys; from the byreThe yokes went clanking by, to dairy, through the mire.In the day's noise the water's noise was stilled,But still it slipped along, the cold hill-spring,Dropping from leafy hollows, which it filled,On to the pebbly shelves which made it sing;Glints glittered on it from the 'fisher's wing;It saw the moorhen nesting; then it stayedIn a great space of reeds where merry otters played.Slowly it loitered past the shivering reedsInto a mightier water; thence its courseBecomes a pasture where the salmon feeds,Wherein no bubble tells its humble source;But the great waves go rolling, and the horseSnorts at the bursting waves and will not drink,And the great ships go outward, bubbling to the brink,Outward, with men upon them, stretched in line,Handling the halliards to the ocean's gates,Where flicking windflaws fill the air with brine,And all the ocean opens. Then the matesCry, and the sunburnt crew no longer waits,But sing triumphant and the topsail fillsTo this old tale of woe among the daffodils.Printed In the United States of America.The following pages contain advertisements ofMacmillan poems by the same author.JOHN MASEFIELD'SThe Everlasting Mercy, and The Widow in Bye StreetDecorated boards, $1.25. Postpaid, $1.38"The Everlasting Mercy" was awarded the Edward de Polignac prize of $500 by the Royal Society of Literature for the best imaginative work of the year."John Masefield is the man of the hour, and the man of to-morrow too, in poetry and in the playwriting craft."--JOHN GALSWORTHY."--recreates a wholly new drama of existence."--WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE,N. Y. Times."Mr. Masefield comes like a flash of light across contemporary English poetry, and he trails glory where his imagination reveals the substances of life. The improbable has been accomplished by Mr. Masefield; he has made poetry out of the very material that has refused to yield it for almost a score of years. It has only yielded it with a passion of Keats, and shaped it with the imagination of Coleridge."--Boston Evening Transcript."Originality, force, distinction, and deep knowledge of the human heart."--Chicago Record-Herald."They are truly great pieces."--Kentucky Post."A vigor and sincerity rare in modern English literature."--The Independent."If Mr. Masefield has occasionally appeared to touch a reminiscent chord with George Meredith, it is merely an example of his good taste and the sameness of big themes."--GEORGE MIDDLETON inLa Foliette's Magazine.JOHN MASEFIELD'SThe Story of a Round-House, and other Poems"John Masefield has produced the finest literature of the year."--J. W. BARRIE."John Masefield is the most interesting poetic personality of the day."--The Continent."Ah! the story of that rounding the Horn! Never in prose has the sea been so tremendously described."--Chicago Evening Post."Masefield's new book attracts the widest attention from those who in any degree are interested in the quality of present-day literature."--Boston Transcript."A remarkable poem of the sea."--San Francisco Chronicle."Vivid and thrillingly realistic."--Current Literature."A genuine sailor and a genuine poet are a rare combination; they have produced a rare poem of the sea, which has made Mr. Masefield's position in literature secure beyond the reach of caviling."--Everybody's Magazine."Masefield has prisoned in verse the spirit of life at sea."--N. Y. Sun."There is strength about everything Masefield writes that compels the feeling that he has an inward eye on which he draws to shape new films of old pictures. In these pictures is freshness combined with power, which form the keynotes of his poetry."--N. Y. Globe.THE MACMILLAN COMPANYPublishers -- 64-66 Fifth Avenue -- New York*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE DAFFODIL FIELDS***
Tried hard to rise, but could not, so they lay,Watching the clouds go sailing on the sky,Touched with a redness from the end of day.There was all April in the blackbird's cry.And lying there they felt they had to die,Die and go under mould and feel no moreApril's green fire of life go running in earth's core.
Tried hard to rise, but could not, so they lay,
Watching the clouds go sailing on the sky,
Touched with a redness from the end of day.
There was all April in the blackbird's cry.
And lying there they felt they had to die,
Die and go under mould and feel no more
April's green fire of life go running in earth's core.
"There was no need to hit me," Michael said;"You quiet thinking fellows lose control.This fighting business is a foolish trade.And now we join the grave-worm and the mole.I tried to stop you. You're a crazy soul;You always were hot-headed. Well, let be:You deep and passionate souls have always puzzled me.
"There was no need to hit me," Michael said;
"You quiet thinking fellows lose control.
This fighting business is a foolish trade.
And now we join the grave-worm and the mole.
I tried to stop you. You're a crazy soul;
You always were hot-headed. Well, let be:
You deep and passionate souls have always puzzled me.
"I'm sorry that I struck you. I was hit,And lashed out blindly at you; you were mad.It would be different if you'd stopped a bit.You are too blind when you are angry, lad.Oh, I am giddy, Lion; dying, bad,Dying." He raised himself, he sat, his lookGrew greedy for the water bubbling in the brook.
"I'm sorry that I struck you. I was hit,
And lashed out blindly at you; you were mad.
It would be different if you'd stopped a bit.
You are too blind when you are angry, lad.
Oh, I am giddy, Lion; dying, bad,
Dying." He raised himself, he sat, his look
Grew greedy for the water bubbling in the brook.
And as he watched it, Lion raised his head;Out of a bloodied clump of daffodil."Michael," he moaned, "I, too, am dying: dead.You're nearer to the water. Could you fillYour hat and give me drink? Or would it spill?Spill, I expect." "I'll try," said Michael, "try--I may as well die trying, since I have to die."
And as he watched it, Lion raised his head;
Out of a bloodied clump of daffodil.
"Michael," he moaned, "I, too, am dying: dead.
You're nearer to the water. Could you fill
Your hat and give me drink? Or would it spill?
Spill, I expect." "I'll try," said Michael, "try--
I may as well die trying, since I have to die."
Slowly he forced his body's failing lifeDown to the water; there he stooped and filled;And as his back turned Lion drew his knife,And hid it close, while all his being thrilledTo see, as Michael came, the water spilled,Nearer and ever nearer, bright, so bright."Drink," muttered Michael, "drink. We two shall sleep to-night."
Slowly he forced his body's failing life
Down to the water; there he stooped and filled;
And as his back turned Lion drew his knife,
And hid it close, while all his being thrilled
To see, as Michael came, the water spilled,
Nearer and ever nearer, bright, so bright.
"Drink," muttered Michael, "drink. We two shall sleep to-night."
He tilted up the hat, and Lion drank.Lion lay still a moment, gathering power,Then rose, as Michael gave him more, and sank.Then, like a dying bird whom death makes tower,He raised himself above the bloodied flowerAnd struck with all his force in Michael's side."You should not have done that," his stricken comrade cried.
He tilted up the hat, and Lion drank.
Lion lay still a moment, gathering power,
Then rose, as Michael gave him more, and sank.
Then, like a dying bird whom death makes tower,
He raised himself above the bloodied flower
And struck with all his force in Michael's side.
"You should not have done that," his stricken comrade cried.
"No; for I meant to tell you, Lion; meantTo tell you; but I cannot now; I die.That hit me to the heart and I am spent.Mary and I have parted; she and IAgreed she must return, lad. That is whyI came to see you. She is coming here,Back to your home to-night. Oh, my beloved dear,
"No; for I meant to tell you, Lion; meant
To tell you; but I cannot now; I die.
That hit me to the heart and I am spent.
Mary and I have parted; she and I
Agreed she must return, lad. That is why
I came to see you. She is coming here,
Back to your home to-night. Oh, my beloved dear,
"You come to tread a bloody path of flowers.All the gold flowers are covered up with blood,And the bright bugles blow along the towers;The bugles triumph like the Plate in flood."His spilled life trickled down upon the mudBetween weak, clutching fingers. "Oh," he cried,"This isn't what we planned here years ago." He died.
"You come to tread a bloody path of flowers.
All the gold flowers are covered up with blood,
And the bright bugles blow along the towers;
The bugles triumph like the Plate in flood."
His spilled life trickled down upon the mud
Between weak, clutching fingers. "Oh," he cried,
"This isn't what we planned here years ago." He died.
Lion lay still while the cold tides of deathCame brimming up his channels. With one handHe groped to know if Michael still drew breath.His little hour was running out its sand.Then, in a mist, he saw his Mary standAbove. He cried aloud, "He was my brother.I was his comrade sworn, and we have killed each other.
Lion lay still while the cold tides of death
Came brimming up his channels. With one hand
He groped to know if Michael still drew breath.
His little hour was running out its sand.
Then, in a mist, he saw his Mary stand
Above. He cried aloud, "He was my brother.
I was his comrade sworn, and we have killed each other.
"Oh desolate grief, beloved, and through me.We wise who try to change. Oh, you wild birds,Help my unhappy spirit to the sea.The golden bowl is scattered into sherds."And Mary knelt and murmured passionate wordsTo that poor body on the dabbled flowers:"Oh, beauty, oh, sweet soul, oh, little love of ours--
"Oh desolate grief, beloved, and through me.
We wise who try to change. Oh, you wild birds,
Help my unhappy spirit to the sea.
The golden bowl is scattered into sherds."
And Mary knelt and murmured passionate words
To that poor body on the dabbled flowers:
"Oh, beauty, oh, sweet soul, oh, little love of ours--
"Michael, my own heart's darling, speak; it's me,Mary. You know my voice. I'm here, dear, here.Oh, little golden-haired one, listen. See,It's Mary, Michael. Speak to Mary, dear.Oh, Michael, little love, he cannot hear;And you have killed him, Lion; he is dead.My little friend, my love, my Michael, golden head.
"Michael, my own heart's darling, speak; it's me,
Mary. You know my voice. I'm here, dear, here.
Oh, little golden-haired one, listen. See,
It's Mary, Michael. Speak to Mary, dear.
Oh, Michael, little love, he cannot hear;
And you have killed him, Lion; he is dead.
My little friend, my love, my Michael, golden head.
"We had such fun together, such sweet fun,My love and I, my merry love and I.Oh, love, you shone upon me like the sun.Oh, Michael, say some little last good-bye."Then in a great voice Lion called, "I die.Go home and tell my people. Mary. Hear.Though I have wrought this ruin, I have loved you, dear.
"We had such fun together, such sweet fun,
My love and I, my merry love and I.
Oh, love, you shone upon me like the sun.
Oh, Michael, say some little last good-bye."
Then in a great voice Lion called, "I die.
Go home and tell my people. Mary. Hear.
Though I have wrought this ruin, I have loved you, dear.
"Better than he; not better, dear, as well.If you could kiss me, dearest, at this last.We have made bloody doorways from our hell,Cutting our tangle. Now, the murder past,We are but pitiful poor souls; and fastThe darkness and the cold come. Kiss me, sweet;I loved you all my life; but some lives never meet
"Better than he; not better, dear, as well.
If you could kiss me, dearest, at this last.
We have made bloody doorways from our hell,
Cutting our tangle. Now, the murder past,
We are but pitiful poor souls; and fast
The darkness and the cold come. Kiss me, sweet;
I loved you all my life; but some lives never meet
"Though they go wandering side by side through Time.Kiss me," he cried. She bent, she kissed his brow:"Oh, friend," she said, "you're lying in the slime.""Three blind ones, dear," he murmured, "in the slough,Caught fast for death; but never mind that now;Go home and tell my people. I am dying,Dying, dear, dying now." He died; she left him lying,
"Though they go wandering side by side through Time.
Kiss me," he cried. She bent, she kissed his brow:
"Oh, friend," she said, "you're lying in the slime."
"Three blind ones, dear," he murmured, "in the slough,
Caught fast for death; but never mind that now;
Go home and tell my people. I am dying,
Dying, dear, dying now." He died; she left him lying,
And kissed her dead one's head and crossed the field."They have been killed," she called, in a great crying."Killed, and our spirits' eyes are all unsealed.The blood is scattered on the flowers drying."It was the hush of dusk, and owls were flying;They hooted as the Occleves ran to bringThat sorry harvest home from Death's red harvesting.
And kissed her dead one's head and crossed the field.
"They have been killed," she called, in a great crying.
"Killed, and our spirits' eyes are all unsealed.
The blood is scattered on the flowers drying."
It was the hush of dusk, and owls were flying;
They hooted as the Occleves ran to bring
That sorry harvest home from Death's red harvesting.
They laid the bodies on the bed together.And "You were beautiful," she said, "and youWere my own darling in the April weather.You knew my very soul, you knew, you knew.Oh, my sweet, piteous love, I was not true.Fetch me fair water and the flowers of spring;My love is dead, and I must deck his burying."
They laid the bodies on the bed together.
And "You were beautiful," she said, "and you
Were my own darling in the April weather.
You knew my very soul, you knew, you knew.
Oh, my sweet, piteous love, I was not true.
Fetch me fair water and the flowers of spring;
My love is dead, and I must deck his burying."
They left her with her dead; they could not chooseBut grant the spirit burning in her faceRights that their pity urged them to refuse.They did her sorrow and the dead a grace.All night they heard her passing footsteps traceDown to the garden from the room of death.They heard her singing there, lowly, with gentle breath,
They left her with her dead; they could not choose
But grant the spirit burning in her face
Rights that their pity urged them to refuse.
They did her sorrow and the dead a grace.
All night they heard her passing footsteps trace
Down to the garden from the room of death.
They heard her singing there, lowly, with gentle breath,
To the cool darkness full of sleeping flowers,Then back, still singing soft, with quiet tread,But at the dawn her singing gathered powersLike to the dying swan who lifts his headOn Eastnor, lifts it, singing, dabbled red,Singing the glory in his tumbling mind,Before the doors burst in, before death strikes him blind.
To the cool darkness full of sleeping flowers,
Then back, still singing soft, with quiet tread,
But at the dawn her singing gathered powers
Like to the dying swan who lifts his head
On Eastnor, lifts it, singing, dabbled red,
Singing the glory in his tumbling mind,
Before the doors burst in, before death strikes him blind.
So triumphing her song of love began,Ringing across the meadows like old woeSweetened by poets to the help of manUnconquered in eternal overthrow;Like a great trumpet from the long agoHer singing towered; all the valley heard.Men jingling down to meadow stopped their teams and stirred.
So triumphing her song of love began,
Ringing across the meadows like old woe
Sweetened by poets to the help of man
Unconquered in eternal overthrow;
Like a great trumpet from the long ago
Her singing towered; all the valley heard.
Men jingling down to meadow stopped their teams and stirred.
And they, the Occleves, hurried to the door,And burst it, fearing; there the singer layDrooped at her lover's bedside on the floor,Singing her passionate last of life away.White flowers had fallen from a blackthorn sprayOver her loosened hair. Pale flowers of springFilled the white room of death; they covered everything.
And they, the Occleves, hurried to the door,
And burst it, fearing; there the singer lay
Drooped at her lover's bedside on the floor,
Singing her passionate last of life away.
White flowers had fallen from a blackthorn spray
Over her loosened hair. Pale flowers of spring
Filled the white room of death; they covered everything.
Primroses, daffodils, and cuckoo-flowers.She bowed her singing head on Michael's breast."Oh, it was sweet," she cried, "that love of ours.You were the dearest, sweet; I loved you best.Beloved, my beloved, let me restBy you forever, little Michael mine.Now the great hour is stricken, and the bread and wine
Primroses, daffodils, and cuckoo-flowers.
She bowed her singing head on Michael's breast.
"Oh, it was sweet," she cried, "that love of ours.
You were the dearest, sweet; I loved you best.
Beloved, my beloved, let me rest
By you forever, little Michael mine.
Now the great hour is stricken, and the bread and wine
"Broken and spilt; and now the homing birdsDraw to a covert, Michael; I to you.Bury us two together," came her words.The dropping petals fell about the two.Her heart had broken; she was dead. They drewHer gentle head aside; they found it pressedAgainst the broidered 'kerchief spread on Michael's breast,
"Broken and spilt; and now the homing birds
Draw to a covert, Michael; I to you.
Bury us two together," came her words.
The dropping petals fell about the two.
Her heart had broken; she was dead. They drew
Her gentle head aside; they found it pressed
Against the broidered 'kerchief spread on Michael's breast,
The one that bore her name in Michael's hair,Given so long before. They let her lie,While the dim moon died out upon the air,And happy sunlight coloured all the sky.The last cock crowed for morning; carts went by;Smoke rose from cottage chimneys; from the byreThe yokes went clanking by, to dairy, through the mire.
The one that bore her name in Michael's hair,
Given so long before. They let her lie,
While the dim moon died out upon the air,
And happy sunlight coloured all the sky.
The last cock crowed for morning; carts went by;
Smoke rose from cottage chimneys; from the byre
The yokes went clanking by, to dairy, through the mire.
In the day's noise the water's noise was stilled,But still it slipped along, the cold hill-spring,Dropping from leafy hollows, which it filled,On to the pebbly shelves which made it sing;Glints glittered on it from the 'fisher's wing;It saw the moorhen nesting; then it stayedIn a great space of reeds where merry otters played.
In the day's noise the water's noise was stilled,
But still it slipped along, the cold hill-spring,
Dropping from leafy hollows, which it filled,
On to the pebbly shelves which made it sing;
Glints glittered on it from the 'fisher's wing;
It saw the moorhen nesting; then it stayed
In a great space of reeds where merry otters played.
Slowly it loitered past the shivering reedsInto a mightier water; thence its courseBecomes a pasture where the salmon feeds,Wherein no bubble tells its humble source;But the great waves go rolling, and the horseSnorts at the bursting waves and will not drink,And the great ships go outward, bubbling to the brink,
Slowly it loitered past the shivering reeds
Into a mightier water; thence its course
Becomes a pasture where the salmon feeds,
Wherein no bubble tells its humble source;
But the great waves go rolling, and the horse
Snorts at the bursting waves and will not drink,
And the great ships go outward, bubbling to the brink,
Outward, with men upon them, stretched in line,Handling the halliards to the ocean's gates,Where flicking windflaws fill the air with brine,And all the ocean opens. Then the matesCry, and the sunburnt crew no longer waits,But sing triumphant and the topsail fillsTo this old tale of woe among the daffodils.
Outward, with men upon them, stretched in line,
Handling the halliards to the ocean's gates,
Where flicking windflaws fill the air with brine,
And all the ocean opens. Then the mates
Cry, and the sunburnt crew no longer waits,
But sing triumphant and the topsail fills
To this old tale of woe among the daffodils.
Printed In the United States of America.
The following pages contain advertisements ofMacmillan poems by the same author.
JOHN MASEFIELD'S
The Everlasting Mercy, and The Widow in Bye Street
Decorated boards, $1.25. Postpaid, $1.38
"The Everlasting Mercy" was awarded the Edward de Polignac prize of $500 by the Royal Society of Literature for the best imaginative work of the year.
"John Masefield is the man of the hour, and the man of to-morrow too, in poetry and in the playwriting craft."--JOHN GALSWORTHY.
"--recreates a wholly new drama of existence."--WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE,N. Y. Times.
"Mr. Masefield comes like a flash of light across contemporary English poetry, and he trails glory where his imagination reveals the substances of life. The improbable has been accomplished by Mr. Masefield; he has made poetry out of the very material that has refused to yield it for almost a score of years. It has only yielded it with a passion of Keats, and shaped it with the imagination of Coleridge."--Boston Evening Transcript.
"Originality, force, distinction, and deep knowledge of the human heart."--Chicago Record-Herald.
"They are truly great pieces."--Kentucky Post.
"A vigor and sincerity rare in modern English literature."--The Independent.
"If Mr. Masefield has occasionally appeared to touch a reminiscent chord with George Meredith, it is merely an example of his good taste and the sameness of big themes."--GEORGE MIDDLETON inLa Foliette's Magazine.
JOHN MASEFIELD'S
The Story of a Round-House, and other Poems
"John Masefield has produced the finest literature of the year."--J. W. BARRIE.
"John Masefield is the most interesting poetic personality of the day."--The Continent.
"Ah! the story of that rounding the Horn! Never in prose has the sea been so tremendously described."--Chicago Evening Post.
"Masefield's new book attracts the widest attention from those who in any degree are interested in the quality of present-day literature."--Boston Transcript.
"A remarkable poem of the sea."--San Francisco Chronicle.
"Vivid and thrillingly realistic."--Current Literature.
"A genuine sailor and a genuine poet are a rare combination; they have produced a rare poem of the sea, which has made Mr. Masefield's position in literature secure beyond the reach of caviling."--Everybody's Magazine.
"Masefield has prisoned in verse the spirit of life at sea."--N. Y. Sun.
"There is strength about everything Masefield writes that compels the feeling that he has an inward eye on which he draws to shape new films of old pictures. In these pictures is freshness combined with power, which form the keynotes of his poetry."--N. Y. Globe.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Publishers -- 64-66 Fifth Avenue -- New York
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE DAFFODIL FIELDS***