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 or fear.

They're like the sea on foggy days,

Not gray, nor 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!