The last night of November <br />All dreaming as I lay, <br />I saw a fisher toiling <br />In stormy seas and grey, - <br /> <br />A glimmering seine-net casting <br />In foam as white as wool . . . <br />And sometimes it came empty, <br />And sometimes it came full. <br /> <br />That port that fisher hailed from <br />Was the port of Heaven above: <br />The shining net he cast there <br />Was the net of Christ His love. <br /> <br />That seine it shone like silver <br />Or the Milky Way come down . . . <br />And, oh! the catch he took there <br />Was the souls of those who drown.<br /><br />Cicely Fox Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/st-andrew-s-eve/
