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.‘