Cicely Fox Smith
St. Andrew's Eve - Poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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.
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