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 fear.
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 !