I am looking for a poem called The Measure Of A Man. I have no idea who wrote it. It is in modern english and may be one of those author unknown poems.Any one know it?



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 09/16/2005 01:29AM by StephenFryer.

Is this it? I found it on a page about Freemasonry.

pam

The Measure of a Man

Author Unknown

Not "How did he die?" But "How did he live?"
Not "What did he gain?" But "What did he give?"
Not "What was his station?" But "Had he a heart?"
And "How did he play his God-given part?"
Not "What was his shrine?" Nor "What was his creed?"
But "Had he befriended those really in need?"
Not "What did the piece in the newspaper say?"
But "How many were sorry when he passed away?"
Was he ever ready with a word or good cheer,
To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.

sir,
i need the explanation and summary of the poem "THE WEST WIND" writen by john masefield a british poet. if you can give explanationn para by para, i will be very thankful to you.

thanking you
yours sincerely
mr singh

The West Wind
by John Masefield

IT'S a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills.
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.

It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.

"Will ye not come home brother? ye have been long away,
It's April, and blossom time, and white is the may;
And bright is the sun brother, and warm is the rain,--
Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?

"The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

"Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes' song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I be.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In Masefield's time "the west" symbolized the undiscovered territory, a land of adventure and fortune. This poem, which is a call to adventure, glorifies nature and its rebirth in springtime. Did you have a specific question about one of the stanzas?


Les









Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 09/12/2021 01:14AM by lg.

What do you mean "in Masefield's time"? I overlap him by 17 years, and I don't think you're much younger, Les.

sir,
as per my information the poet is british and has gone to america, where he writes this poem. why then, is the wind coming from his homeland, which is calling him back home, reffered to as west wind. when it is coming from his eastern side, becuse he is in america, when he is writing this poem, and england is on the east to america.


thanking you
yours sincerely
mr. singh

I must say that with starting with sir, you disencourage about half of the emule population from answering...

Linda, Masefield was born in 1878 died in 1967. At the turn of the 20th century when he began writing, the symbolism was still in place. Linda, I had no idea you were as old as me and Hugh (lol). [en.wikipedia.org]


Mr. Singh ask your instructor that question.


Les



Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 09/12/2021 02:49PM by lg.

He was poet laureate while I was at school, so I tend to think of him as belonging to that period rather than the early part of the century when his best work was written.

I feel sure JM was familiar with this anonymous one from the 1500's:

O western wind, when wilt thou blow
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

The rhythm chosen for the Masefield WW reminds me of his Sea Fever:

I must go down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship
and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song
and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face
and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again,
for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call
that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day
with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume,
and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again
to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way
where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn
from a laughing fellow rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream
when the long trick's over.


As far as the salutation 'sir' goes, one also still sees such sexist greetings sent to modern-day corporations (Dear Sirs:). Stranger yet is why one uses the Dear word at all, especailly when sent to folks we don't know. If I were writing a letter of complaint, I might still write, Dear (whoever), although I don't hold them the slightest bit dear.

Way back when, it was safe to always use the male words (will each of you turn to page 55 in his book), then it changed to, ... page 55 in their book, then ... page 55 in his/her book. Sure, one could say page 55 in your books, but what fun is that. It was also suggested that a neuter word be used, but what it was escapes me for the moment (something like 'schwa'). Never caught on anyway, so no matter. No, you can't say its book either, sorry.

the method regularly used nowadays is a note in the beginning stating that wherever he or his is used it can also be read as she or hers! I like this one better.

related article:
[en.wikipedia.org]

At least in french they link the his/her to the word it describes. Very interestingly, my husband sometimes makes mistakes in english because of this. For example, he went to see her aunt.

In other words, assume that the male embraces the female.


Mr Singh, sir,

The poet may have been in America when he wrote The West Wind (I don't know), but that would not have prevented his imagination from being back in England.

Moreover a poet may write from the point of view of a persona not his own. I read The West Wind as being about the beautiful 'West Country' of southern England (e.g. Somerset and Devon), as might be recalled with homesickness by someone in the east of England (e.g. in the Essex marsh country) or at sea on a ship patrolling the coastline of the Continent

The last word of the posted poem should be 'belong' not 'be'.

To further confuse the issue, here is Shelley's take on the wind:

Ode to the West Wind
---Percy Bysshe Shelley

I

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aery surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Les

Mr hugh clary, please dont make a mountain of a mole.
there was no sexist intention in that, and no offence was
meant to any one. i would like to tell
you please have a broader outlook.



AND


To desi, no offece meant. if some one asks for some information and if one
wants to help, one should no let ( should think whether it really
meant as you thought,because it didn't) such small things come in
your greater thing, of helping.



mr singh

To LanB, thank you for your information.




mr singh

Hey, who has more of a broad outlook than my lecherous self? Pshaw!

Ok, explanation excepted. But I seriously didn't know if you thought only men were able to help, and I wasn't going to exert myself if my reactions wouldn't be taken seriously, if you know what I mean.

But, are you ok now, or do you have more specific questions?

ok,now why dont you share, your view, regarding my question with me,and others
and believe me, your energy will not be wasted, and infact your effort will
be appreciated.

the other people's views were helpful, and lets see your view.




mr singh

I thought (among all the disinformation) that the theme of the poem was already stated. Perhaps not. Note the quotation marks in some of the stanzas. The West Wind is calling the speaker of the poem back home, the same as the anonymous author's west wind is calling him back to his lover's arms.

I infer no one wants to give you a paragraph by paragraph (actually stanza by stanza) explanation because that would be doing your assignment for you. They are willing to help, that is, not do it in your stead.

hugh clary,i did not ask now, for para by para or stanza by stanza explanation.
as desi felt not encouraged to share her view previuosly and we
sorted out that, i only told her to feel free and share her view.
and thanx for your view also.


mr singh

>hugh clary,i did not ask now, for para by para or stanza by stanza explanation.


Was then this poster a different mr singh?:


>Posted by: mr singh (192.168.128.---)
>Date: September 11, 2021 04:47AM

>sir,
>i need the explanation and summary of the poem "THE WEST WIND" writen by john
>masefield a british poet. if you can give explanationn para by para, i will be
>very thankful to you.

>thanking you
>yours sincerely
>mr singh


It does seem odd to me that there would be two people with the same name and IP address, I have to admit. Still, I am unable to locate the 192.168.128.--- origin, so you may be correct.

sir,
>i need the explanation and summary of the poem "THE WEST WIND" writen by john
>masefield a british poet. if you can give explanationn para by para, i will be
>very thankful to you.

>thanking you
>yours sincerely
>mr singh


hugh clary, what you posted above, please clear your memory and i
think you need that, very much, was the first time, when
i asked, and after receiving the answer for that,
i understood that, it is not possible to get the answer
that way, and was satisfied with the answers i got,and
please read my last letter it clearly states
"this time" and if you dont understand this much also
then i cant help it,you need to help yourself,and i
was talking to desi not you.from now on please excuse
yourself from responding to my letters. thank you.

mr singh

>from now on please excuse
>yourself from responding to my letters

I post whatever and whenever I please, sir. There is nothing you can do about that, so get over it. You may take comfort in the fact that I support your right to do the same. If you ever are able to form a coherent sentence, that is. Until that time, let me leave you with the following thought:

There once was a blockhead named singh
Who seldom, if ever, would bringh
Any sense to a forum,
So, lacking decorum,
Had nothing but insults to flingh.

Now you've gone and done it, Hugh. We get one query in a month and you drive the poor guy away in one swing. Just for the record though, I think Mr. Singh is probably pulling our leg anyway. Why else would he post a question of interpretation of a Masefield poem on a thread devoted to "The Measure of a Man"?



Les

Sad it has to end this way.

Mr Singh, forgive any rudeness you have experienced on this forum. It's just cut and thrust, light-heartedness: sometimes it sounds cruel.

One tip. If you have a query, start a new thread with it. If you tack it on to an existing thread, it causes confusion.

Carry on reading and enjoying poetry, even when it seems difficult or even incomprehensible. Come back soon.

My kingdom for a break. Clearly, singh is either a troll or a nutcase. First, he asks for a 'per paragraph' explanation, then later denies having done so. He was repeatedly confrontational, first to Desi, then to yours truly. I passed his first one to me off with a (possibly less than) witty rejoinder, but he continued in the same, condescending manner. Instead of a paragon of patience, I am seen as cuttingly cruel? Crikey, faugh, egads, yoicks and zowie!

It sounded to me he had problems with english. It is maybe not his first language? That may cause people to sound rude and condenscending without them meaning to. Anyway, he never answered my question, so I kind of gave up.

And Hugh, no you don't sound cruel. Just extremely bored. Can't imagine you being so on your toes when you have more important matters on your mind. Like outrageously funny little poems. ;-)