Tangled in Stars

Poems 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.
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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 32]
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