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Shilpa KarhikJohn Masefield - On Growing Old
May 10th 2006 10:10
ON GROWING OLD
by John Masefield
Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying;
My dog and I are old, too old for roving.
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,
Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.
I take the book and gather to the fire,
Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute
The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,
Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.
I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander
Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys
Ever again, nore share the battle yonder
Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies.
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.
Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power,
The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace,
Summer of man its sunlight and its flower.
Spring-time of man, all April in a face.
Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,
Where the mob thrusts, or loiters, or is loud,
The beggar with the saucer in his hand
Asks only a penny from the passing crowd,
So, from this glittering world with all its fashion,
Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march,
Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion,
Bread to the soul, rain when the summers parch.
Give me but these, and though the darkness close
Even the night will blossom as the rose.
John Edward Masefield was an English writer who wrote an enormous amount of poetry, children's and adults' novels and dramatic pieces, and he was also a prolific public speaker. He was Poet Laureate from 1930 until his death in 1967. He took his position very seriously and wrote a lot more than expected of him, and the only Poet Laureate to serve for longer than Masefield was Lord Tennyson. Masefield received many honours for his work as Poet Laureate, including the Order of Merit from King George V. and various honourary degrees from universities. He received honourary doctorates from Harvard, Yale and Oxford University.
He wrote continually until his old age when his output lessened, but still didn't stop entirely. His last book of poetry, "In Glad Thanksgiving", was published when he was 88, and he died the following year.
by John Masefield
Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying;
My dog and I are old, too old for roving.
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,
Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.
I take the book and gather to the fire,
Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute
The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,
Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.
I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander
Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys
Ever again, nore share the battle yonder
Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies.
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.
Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power,
The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace,
Summer of man its sunlight and its flower.
Spring-time of man, all April in a face.
Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,
Where the mob thrusts, or loiters, or is loud,
The beggar with the saucer in his hand
Asks only a penny from the passing crowd,
So, from this glittering world with all its fashion,
Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march,
Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion,
Bread to the soul, rain when the summers parch.
Give me but these, and though the darkness close
Even the night will blossom as the rose.
John Edward Masefield was an English writer who wrote an enormous amount of poetry, children's and adults' novels and dramatic pieces, and he was also a prolific public speaker. He was Poet Laureate from 1930 until his death in 1967. He took his position very seriously and wrote a lot more than expected of him, and the only Poet Laureate to serve for longer than Masefield was Lord Tennyson. Masefield received many honours for his work as Poet Laureate, including the Order of Merit from King George V. and various honourary degrees from universities. He received honourary doctorates from Harvard, Yale and Oxford University.
He wrote continually until his old age when his output lessened, but still didn't stop entirely. His last book of poetry, "In Glad Thanksgiving", was published when he was 88, and he died the following year.
John Edward Masefield (1878 - 1967)
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