The Fisherman

 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!