The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



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


     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.”


The fisher has an open mind,
     A meditative heart;
He walks companioned by the wind
     Or sits alone, apart,
Within some stream-enchanted dell.


    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. [Page 100]


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!


     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 101]