The Fisherman

    The freckled man who goes

    To a grey place on a hill

    In grey Connemara clothes

    At dawn to cast his flies，

    It‘s long since I began

    To call up to the eyes

    This wise and simple man.

    All day I‘d looked in the face

    What I had hoped ‘twould be

    To write for my own race

    And the reality；

    The living men that I hate，

    The dead man that I loved，

    The craven man in his seat，

    The insolent unreproved，

    And no knave brought to book

    Who has won a drunken cheer，

    The witty man and his joke

    Aimed at the commonest ear，

    The clever man who cries

    The catch-cries of the clown，

    The beating down of the wise

    And great Art beaten down.

    Maybe a twelvemonth since

    Suddenly I began，

    In scorn of this audience，

    Imagining a man，

    And his sun-freckled face，

    And grey Connemara cloth，

    Climbing up to a place

    Where stone is dark under froth，

    And the down-turn of his wrist

    When the flies drop in the stream；

    A man who does not exist，

    A man who is but a dream；

    And cried， ‘Before I am old

    I shall have written him one

    Poem maybe as cold

    And passionate as the dawn.‘