by Abbie Farwell Brown
The fisherman goes out at dawn
When every one's abed,
And from the bottom of the sea
Draws up his daily bread.
His life is strange; half on the shore
And half upon the sea --
Not quite a fish, and yet not quite
The same as you and me.
The fisherman has curious eyes;
They make you feel so queer,
As if they had seen many things
Of wonder and of fear.
They're like the sea on foggy days, --
Not gray, nor yet quite blue;
They 're like the wondrous tales he tells
Not quite -- yet maybe -- true.
He knows so much of boats and tides,
Of winds and clouds and sky!
But when I tell of city things,
He sniffs and shuts one eye!