Cargoes

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven under the Hill, Gold and spices in that quay, And the sails of white on sea of blue.

A weary fisherman under the dusky sky With a net of silver, the fading sun he sighs, In the long shadows falling under the sea, Can dream of golden cargo set to the tide’s lullaby.

• John Masefield