The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

THE FISHERMAN.



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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     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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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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    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]

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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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     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]

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