Tangled in Stars

Poems 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.

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 32]