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 year. 

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!