Tuesday Poem: “The Ballad of Sir Bors” by John Masefield
The Ballad of Sir Bors
WOULD I could win some quiet and rest, and a little ease,
In the cool grey hush of the dusk, in the dim green place of the trees,
Where the birds are singing, singing, singing, crying aloud
The song of the red, red rose that blossoms beyond the seas.
Would I could see it, the rose, when the light begins to fail,
And a lone white star in the West is glimmering on the mail;
The red, red passionate rose of the sacred blood of the Christ,
In the shining chalice of God, the cup of the Holy Grail.
The dusk comes gathering grey, and the darkness dims the West,
The oxen low to the byre, and all bells ring to rest;
But I ride over the moors, for the dusk still bides and waits,
That brims my soul with the glow of the rose that ends the Quest.
My horse is spavined and ribbed, and his bones come through his hide,
My sword is rotten with rust, but I shake the reins and ride,
For the bright white birds of God that nest in the rose have called,
And never a township now is a town where I can bide.
It will happen at last, at dusk, as my horse limps down the fell,
A star will glow like a note God strikes on a silver bell,
And the bright white birds of God will carry my soul to Christ,
And the sight of the Rose, the Rose, will pay for the years of hell.
.
by John Masefield, 1878-1967
—
Carcanet Press, in presenting a bio of John Masefield in relation to their publication Sea Fever: Selected Poems of John Masefield, ed. Philip Errington, 2005, says the following:
“John Masefield (1878-1967) is one of the great storytellers of English poetry, a spinner of yarns and ballads of tall ships and exotic seas, of the deep-rooted life of the rural England in which he grew up, and of the great narratives of Troy and Arthurian legend. Some included here – ‘Sea-Fever’ and ‘Cargoes’ – are among the best-loved poems in English …”
The reason I chose a relatively unknown poem, The Ballad of Sir Bors, rather than Cargoes and Sea Fever which are indeed favourites of mine, is mainly because of having featured the Riders of Rohan’s Poem, from JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, last week. As I said then, the Riders’ poem is an adapation of the Anglo Saxon poem, The Wanderer, although Tolkien used more contemporary iambec meter for his adaptation, in keeping with English epic and heroic poetry of the past 500 or so years. This, of course, got me thinking about English epic and heroic poetry generally (did you know that I’ve been waiting to spring Paradise Lost on you all? 😉 ) and some specific examples I’ve loved over the years. (Tim Jones’ already gave us Tennyson’s Ulysses last year.)
The Ballad of Sir Bors is one of those poems. I love the richness of the rhythm and rhyme, but I also agree with Carcanet about the “story” element of Masefield’s poetry, in this case as reflected in the persona of the Grail knight, Sir Bors. On the one hand the poem shows us Sir Bors’ dedication to the grinding, unrelenting, unendurable quest for the Holy Grail that has become his life. Yet even in the midst of the hell that his quest has become, Sir Bors is also a poet—both through his physical eyes on the world surrounding him and the vision of his soul for the Grail, he sees Beauty.
The other reason I chose this particular Masefield poem is because something in the rhythm and tone of the opening lines reminds me—in the best possible way—of WB Yeats’ The Lake Isle of Innisfree that I featured for Mother’s Day. (Because it was me mum’s fav’rite, ay!)
—
To read the featured poem on the Tuesday Poem Blog hub—and to link to other Tuesday Poets posting around the world—either click here or on the Quill icon in the sidebar.
WOULD I could win some quiet and rest, and a little ease, | |
In the cool grey hush of the dusk, in the dim green place of the trees, | |
Where the birds are singing, singing, singing, crying aloud | |
The song of the red, red rose that blossoms beyond the seas. | |
Would I could see it, the rose, when the light begins to fail, | 5 |
And a lone white star in the West is glimmering on the mail; | |
The red, red passionate rose of the sacred blood of the Christ, | |
In the shining chalice of God, the cup of the Holy Grail. | |
The dusk comes gathering grey, and the darkness dims the West, | |
The oxen low to the byre, and all bells ring to rest; | 10 |
But I ride over the moors, for the dusk still bides and waits, | |
That brims my soul with the glow of the rose that ends the Quest. | |
My horse is spavined and ribbed, and his bones come through his hide, | |
My sword is rotten with rust, but I shake the reins and ride, | |
For the bright white birds of God that nest in the rose have called, | 15 |
And never a township now is a town where I can bide. | |
It will happen at last, at dusk, as my horse limps down the fell, | |
A star will glow like a note God strikes on a silver bell, | |
And the bright white birds of God will carry my soul to Christ, | |
And the sight of the Rose, the Rose, will pay for the years of hell. |
That poem takes me back. The Midnight Folk was one of my favourite books as a kid and I still revisit it from time to time. I have a rather rare Masefield book but, alas, it’s rare because it’s not up to the quality of his others. When he was good, though, he was extraordinary.
Sir Bors is an oldie but a goodie for me. But I’ve never read any of his prose, not even The Midnight Folk. Weird, huh?!
It means you have that joy in store, which is a good thing.
I love “Sea Fever” and “Cargoes” too, but didn’t know this one – thanks for posting it.
(I could never get into The Midnight Folk, though).
Catherine, When we’ve unquaked (ie I’ve unpacked all the books along with every other durned thing from boxes—one day!) I could lend you the collection it’s from. It contains many poems, all relatively unknown, that I really enjoy.