John Edward Masefield, OM (June 1, 1878 - May 12, 1967) was an English poet and writer, and Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1930 until his death in 1967. He is remembered as the author of the classic children's novels The Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights, and poems, including "The Everlasting Mercy" and "Sea- Fever". (Click here for full Wikipedia article)
But Time and Tide and Buttered Eggs wait for no man.
Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain.
Commonplace people dislike tragedy because they dare not suffer and cannot exult.
Humans consist of body, mind and imagination. Our bodies are faulty, our minds untrustworthy, but our imagination has made us remarkable.
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.
In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.
It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
Life is a long headache in a noisy street.
Life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter.
Men in a ship are always looking up, and men ashore are usually looking down.
Most roads lead men homewards,
My road leads forth.
Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.
Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.
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.
Success is the brand on the brow of the man who aimed too low.
The days that make us happy make us wise.
The distant soul can shake the distant friend's soul and make the longing felt, over untold miles.
The luck will alter and the star will rise.
There are few earthly things more beautiful than a university a place where those who hate ignorance may strive to know, where those who perceive truth may strive to make others see.
What am I, Life?
A thing of watery salt
Held in cohesion by unresting cells,
Which work they know not why, which never halt,
Myself unwitting where their Master dwells?
(June 1 is also the birthday of Marilyn Monroe.)