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.
Masefield's refrain—"I must go down to the seas again"—captures a restless compulsion. Each stanza lists what he "asks" for: star, wind, spray, companionship. The specifics build a sensory world of salt and motion, emphasizing the bodily memory of life aboard ship.
The second stanza names the sea's call as both "wild" and "clear," irresistible even when it promises hardship. The sailor's joy is inseparable from danger; the wind is "like a whetted knife," sharpening experience rather than merely threatening it. Freedom is portrayed as an elemental relationship with weather and tide.
The final request is modest: a yarn and a sweet dream after the "long trick"—the turn at the helm—is done. Masefield suggests that belonging lies not on land but in the continual journey, and rest comes only after embracing that wandering vocation.
Interpretation generated with assistance from Claude.