Death Is A Fisherman Poem by Benjamin Franklin
Death Is A Fisherman
Death is a fisherman, the world we see
His fish-pond is, and we the fishes be;
His net some general sickness; howe'er he
Is not so kind as other fishers be;
For if they take one of the smaller fry,
They throw him in again, he shall not die:
But death is sure to kill all he can get,
And all is fish with him that comes to net.
Could not agree more. Death's icy fingers care not who they entangle.
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4/25/2024 12:36:57 PM # 1.0.0.1119
" His fish pond is, and we the fishes be" beautiful lines. So nice poem.