The Dead Fisherman
Now let him rest,
Toil-worn hands on nerveless breast.
Fish come into the silver bays,
And red suns go to the west.
But never again with wind and tide
Will he pull out from the harbour-side:
Never again will he stoop and toil
On the flakes where the fish are dried.
He knew these wonders—fog and wind;
The lifting dark with fire behind;
The slosh of surf in weedy rocks;
The flurries white and blind.
In dread and hunger he sailed and steered.
Famine and cold were the things he feared:
But now he feels no want nor doubt
Since the farthest cape was cleared.
Gulls wing over the laughing bay
Where he and his cares toiled yesterday;
And down where his lobster traps are piled
The green tide has its way.
When winds draw south, and ice drives in,
And the landwash shakes with crashing din,
Right well he’ll know, though his eyes be shut,
How the white spume hisses thin.
When sea smoke hides the crawling sea,
And black reefs crouch expectantly,
He’ll know the drag of the twisting tide
And the doomed brig’s agony.
Now let him sleep.
Nothing to win; nothing to keep;
Nothing to want; nothing to fear—
Buried so soft and deep!
