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SofieSeghers — The Fisherman
Published: 2013-07-03 14:35:04 +0000 UTC; Views: 89; Favourites: 2; Downloads: 0
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Description
Although I can see him stillThe freckled man who goes
To a gray place on a hill
In gray 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 it would 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 twelve-month since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face
And gray Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark with 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.”
The Fisherman
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
Canon Eos 1100D
18-55mm
