I touch my country’s mind, I come to grips,

With half her purpose, thinking of those ships,

That art untouched by softness, all that line,

Drawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine,

That nobleness and grandeur, all that beauty,

Born of a manly life and bitter duty,

That splendour of fine bows which yet could stand

The shock of rollers never checked by land

That art of masts, sail crowded, fit to break,

Yet stayed to strength and back stayed into rake,

The life demanded by that art, the keen

Eye-puckered, hard-case seaman, silent, lean,

They are grander things than all the art of towns,

Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns,

They are my country’s line, her great art done

By strong brains laboring on the thought unwon,

They mark our passage as a race of men,

Earth will not see such ships as these again

Excerpt from SHIPS

BY John Masefield, 16th poet laureate of England