John Masefield

The Golden City of St. Mary

Out beyond the sunset, could I but find the way,
Is a sleepy blue laguna which widens to a bay,

Catholic imagery

"Blessed City" and "St. Mary" frame this as heaven, but it's a sailor's heaven—not harps and clouds, but taverns and Spanish songs. The Virgin Mary was patron saint of sailors.

And there's the Blessed City—so the sailors say—
The Golden City of St. Mary.

sailors' paradise tradition

Masefield worked as a merchant seaman before becoming a poet. Sailors had legends about mythical ports—perfect harbors where the watch finally ends. This is his version of Fiddler's Green.

It's built of fair marble—white—without a stain,
And in the cool twilight when the sea-winds wane
The bells chime faintly, like a soft, warm rain,

sailors' paradise tradition

Masefield worked as a merchant seaman before becoming a poet. Sailors had legends about mythical ports—perfect harbors where the watch finally ends. This is his version of Fiddler's Green.

In the Golden City of St. Mary.
Among the green palm-trees where the fire-flies shine,
Are the white tavern tables where the gallants dine,
Singing slow Spanish songs like old mulled wine,
In the Golden City of St. Mary.

sailors' paradise tradition

Masefield worked as a merchant seaman before becoming a poet. Sailors had legends about mythical ports—perfect harbors where the watch finally ends. This is his version of Fiddler's Green.

Oh I'll be shipping sunset-wards and westward-ho

waves as snow

"Combers" are long, curling waves. "Toppling" and "shattering into snow" describes whitecaps—the foam when waves break. He's writing the journey to get there, not just the destination.

Through the green toppling combers a-shattering into snow,
Till I come to quiet moorings and a watch below,

nautical death euphemism

"A watch below" means going off-duty to rest below deck. In sailor slang, it's also dying—the permanent rest. The whole poem is about death as arriving at port.

sailors' paradise tradition

Masefield worked as a merchant seaman before becoming a poet. Sailors had legends about mythical ports—perfect harbors where the watch finally ends. This is his version of Fiddler's Green.

In the Golden City of St. Mary.
Source Wikipedia Poetry Foundation

Reading Notes

Masefield's Sailor Mythology

John Masefield went to sea at 15 on a merchant ship, an experience that marked everything he wrote. This poem draws on actual sailor folklore—Fiddler's Green, the mythical afterlife where dead seamen drink and sing forever. But Masefield Catholicizes it, calling it "St. Mary" and making it the "Blessed City." The Virgin Mary was the traditional patron saint of sailors, invoked in storms.

The poem works because it's specific about what sailors actually wanted: not transcendence, but rest. "Quiet moorings" after rough seas. "A watch below" after standing watch. Taverns with "white tables" (clean, unlike shipboard mess). The details—"cool twilight," "sea-winds wane," "soft, warm rain"—are what you'd crave after months of salt spray and heat.

Notice the phrase "so the sailors say"—Masefield frames this as their legend, not his invention. He's reporting sailor mythology, which gives it authenticity. The repetition of the entire poem (it's printed twice, like a sea shanty's verses) reinforces the oral tradition. Sailors repeated stories to pass time on long voyages.

The Geography of Death

The city is "out beyond the sunset" and "westward-ho"—death is literally west, where the sun dies daily. This wasn't just poetic: Spanish and Portuguese sailors genuinely believed paradise lay west across the Atlantic. The "sleepy blue laguna" suggests the Caribbean or Pacific—warm-water harbors Masefield would have known from his sailing days.

"Could I but find the way" is the poem's hinge. He's not sure how to get there, or if it exists—"so the sailors say" is hearsay, not certainty. The whole poem is subjunctive, wishful. "Oh I'll be shipping sunset-wards" sounds definite, but it's a hope, not a plan. The route requires going "Through the green toppling combers"—you have to survive the dangerous passage to reach the safe harbor. That's the metaphor: death is the storm you sail through to reach peace.