Fishermen will relate that in the South
Upon an island rich in spice and oil
And precious stones that glitter in the sand,
There dwelt a bird who, standing upon earth,
Could tear the crowns of lofty trees asunder
With his strong beak; who, lifting up his wings
Dyed as with ichor of the Tyrian snail,
Unto his low and heavy flight, had been
A shadow in seeming, like a somber cloud.
By day he vanished in the olive groves,
But evening ever brought him to the shore
Where in the coolness of the salt sea-breeze

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.

A fisher was casting his flies in a brook,
According to laws of such sciences,
With a patented reel and a patented hook
And a number of other appliances;
And the thirty-fifth cast, which he vowed was the last
(It was figured as close as a decimal),
Brought suddenly out of the water a trout
Of measurements infinitesimal.

This fish had a way that would win him a place
In the best and most polished society,
And he looked at the fisherman full in the face
With a visible air of anxiety:
He murmured “Alas!” from his place on the grass,

A Folk Poem

Fisher, in your bright bark rowing,
Whither fishing are you going?
  All is lovely, all is lovely,
  All is lovely, fisherman.

See you not that last star hiding
In a cloud, as you are riding?
  Take your sail in, take your sail in,
  Take your sail in, fisherman.

If your net you are entangling,
Sail and oar soon will be dangling.
  O be wary, O be wary,
  O be wary, fisherman.

Danger lurks for him who listens
Where the singing mermaid glistens,
  Gaze not on her, gaze not on her,

1. The first time I went to Frisco, I went upon a
spree. My money at last I spent it fast, got drunk as drunk could
be; I was fully inclined, made up my mind I'd
go to sea no more! 2. That night I slept with Angeline, too
drunk for to turn in bed. My clothes was new and my
money was, too; next morning with them she fled. And as
daily I walked the streets around you'd hear the people say, “There
goes Jack Rack, poor sailor lad, he must go to sea once more!”

3 The first one that I came to was a son-of-a-gun called Brown.

FIRST STANDS the lofty Washington,
That noble, great, immortal one.
The elder Adams next we see,
And Jefferson comes number three;
Then Madison is fourth you know,
The fifth one on the list, Monroe;
The sixth, then Adams comes again,
And Jackson seventh in the train.
Van Buren eighth upon the line
And Harrison counts number nine.
The tenth is Tyler in his turn,
And Polk the eleventh, as we learn.
The twelfth is Taylor in rotation,
The thirteenth Fillmore in succession;
The fourteenth, Pierce, has been selected,

The first of April, some do say,
Is set apart for All Fools' Day,
But why the people call it so
Nor I nor they themselves do know.

The first Nowell the angel did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay;
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep
On a cold winter's night that was so deep.

Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,
Born is the King of Israel.

They looked up and saw a star,
Shining in the East beyond them far,
And to the earth it gave great light,
And so it continued both day and night.

Nowell . . .

And by the light of the same Star,
Three Wisemen came from country far;
To seek for a King was their intent,

The first hazelnut trundles down from above.
The second hazelnut, the third, the fourth, the fifth, and
the sixth, trundle down from above.
The hazelnuts trundle down, nut by nut, to the ground beneath
the dumb tree, the tree whose memory the squirrel collects
nut by nut, rolling it into his den.
Each year a memory of hazelnuts rolls, nut by nut, into
the den of the prince with the merry tail,
and the tree forgets.

The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;
And the South Wind, washing through the room,
Makes the candles quiver.
My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,
And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots
Outside, in the night.
Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?