The Fisherman Although I have no gift of gab, While fishing with a threadbare line I often see the otters bob Around their blackened linny tree, Where they nest or water flows.

The grey hill shines beneath a cloud, Where pastures are in pools of rain And one bright dappled cow draws near; O, lost among the reeds, in places slight, And the smile of a maiden at twilight.

Around every rock in the bay I, drawn beside streams, blast the pain Using a dream of the wind. And if lonely soft remedies lie,
I will never return to tell the lie.

• William Butler Yeats