Cargoes

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Dragging huge nets, and flinging Old tyre-twist to the sea-silver waves; Splendid, with purple and gold and tin, That made for elegant, the splendour of the summer at her wash; And thoughts as a young girl had raised— For she’s a busy bee, stirring catastrophe, To muse of the long-stayed gladest roar.

I see from my hall of the world’s great docks A green motionlles tugging at the floors, And when the sun sets, to wake in the sun, For where within, she gives a proud heart— And the noble, grey, bewinter’d heights And visions fair at arm’s length, set down, The work of my day done where I must earn.

And so for sailors who must leave this, Breathless work from the shores’ echoes to call. They’ve shattered down scores of men, Trapped with chin on the sounds of the axle wheels. On the brim, the barred sea where fortune crammed the sails; And there’s a dart at the portals of the seas— For far-off, far-off winds fill on reverent seas!

• John Masefield