COme, the wide waters roll, and the fishermen
roll their nets and go to the sun, to the broad
boats, where light, dancing, leafs boats
bright in gold, and gulls cross, crying,
the scene, and cross again, complaining. Come:
the fish, deep-dwelling, await. And waves
rise foaming, and the long swells' song
breaks like bread, or prayer, on the blood's tide;
all here oar-raised, green-psalmed, time-stopped
and the soul-strewn hulls gull-followed and gold-leaped,
arriving, see God's sung gifts named and given
into hands, working the nets, pull! And make
all things new, as the gulls ask alms, and the fish,
lashing, gape their salt breath out, and lie
still, communing. The wine-dark seas pass under,
and the heavy boats swing round, and the men roll
their nets and go, numb-handed, backs bent, harbor bound,
gift-laden, home: where light, fast fading, locks
land in gold, and gulls cross, crying,
the scene, and cross again, rejoicing.