THE
FISHERMAN
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The fisher’s face is hard to read,
His eyes are deep and still;
His boots have crushed a pungent weed
Beside a far off rill.
Oh, early lifted he the latch
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5 |
And
sped through dew away,
But when we ask him of the catch
That was to mark the day,
He lifts his empty hands and smiles:
“I fished for hours, I fished for miles.”
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10 |
The fisher has an open mind,
A meditative heart;
He walks companioned by the wind
Or sits alone, apart,
Within some stream-enchanted dell.
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15 |
The
fish about him play
In sweet content. They know full well
That friends of his are
they.
Dame Nature all his soul beguiles
With murmurous hours and emerald miles.
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20 |
But one who trod the path he took
By fragrant woodland ways,
To where the cold trout-haunted brook
Ran thick-leaved from the
gaze,
Heard him but sigh, “How fair it is!
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25 |
My
God—and what am I
That Thy most secret harmonies
Should flood the ear and
eye?”
At eve with empty hands he smiles:
“I caught the best of the hours and miles.”
[Page 32]
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