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- THE FISHERMAN
-
- ALTHOUGH I can see him still.
- 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.'
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