JOHN ALEXANDER CHAPMAN
Am I a leafless branch, bowed with a load of snow; Not for warm hands to pluck, but alone in the world of cold ; Black against pale-washed sky, grey never vein'd with red ? But so the better for you, cold shape of the dark outside, You banished from rose too red for ice-green eyes to see; Chased before lambing time, ere even the snowdrops come, Poor gipsy-wraith of the snow, but knowing your brother,
and come
To him ? Then come to me. I will give you a cold, cold kiss. My roses arc dead, they too. My lips are grey. My eyes Have neither ins nor pupil. They died, and now all is white , White in a face of stone. Sister, cold lover, come.
JOHN MASEF1ELD
95 8 Cargoes
OUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rail, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
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