MY father he was a fisherman, <br />That wrought at the break o' day, <br />And hither and thither the long tides ran <br />I' the long blue bay. <br /> <br />'The tides go up and the tides go down, <br />But what do you know of the sea ?' <br />Her voice, i' the long gray streets o' the town, <br />Is singing to me. <br /> <br />'What do you know of the sails at dawn, <br />What of the shell-white foam ?' <br />Cheerly and sweet, from a world withdrawn, <br />They are calling me home. <br /> <br />'What is the grief you fain would tell <br />When your eyes are turned on me ?' <br />O, well it was taught and I learned it well,– <br />The grief o' the sea. <br /> <br />'Where do you travel and where do you sleep, <br />Where shall you take your rest ?' <br />At the inn that shelters my father, deep <br />I' the seas o' the west.<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-father-he-was-a-fisherman/
