Cicely Fox Smith
Cicely Fox Smith Poems
St. Andrew's Eve
The last night of November
All dreaming as I lay,
I saw a fisher toiling
In stormy seas and grey, -
A glimmering seine-net casting
In foam as white as wool . . .
And sometimes it came empty,
And sometimes it came full.
That port that fisher hailed from
Was the port of Heaven above:
The shining net he cast there
Was the net of Christ His love.
That seine it shone like silver
Or the Milky Way come down . . .
And, oh! the catch he took there
Was the souls of those who drown.
A Ballad Of The Time
A man there was, called - what you will; he came of an ancient breed:
Sprung from the loins of the grey North, his sires were men indeed;
And they were lords of all the seas, and, dreaded in all lands,
Years ago and years ago, for they were strong o' their hands.
All in a rich and easy land suddenly dawned a day
When the talk was not of football - that he watched but could not play,
When streets were loud with marching feet, and loud the ringing quays
With more to swell the bloody toll