- DOM MORAES
O my brothers!
The spinning spray
On the desperate rocks
And the lank weed-locks
Where the fishes play
This the fisherman sees.
O my brothers!
He sails away
In the mouth of the sea
Swathed in mist
Where the sea-gulls whist
This the fisherman does.
O my brothers!
The sea-gull seem
Like the sprits of the dead
Eternally hovering
In the damp fog covering
The se where the spindrift creams
This the fisherman feels.
O my brothers!
The rocks lie near
Jabbing their hungry teeth
Into the deathly air
Fisherman have a care
Deaths grimly weary stare
Lies everywhere
Thence the fisherman sails.
O my brothers!
The boat
Lies on the rocks
Caked with salt
Cramped by weeds
Death has had what he need
Fisherman call a halt
Thus the Fisherman dies.
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