I know a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble in January. He dangles herring before prospective customers evincing a joy identical with that of Pavlowa dancing. His face is that of a man terribly glad to be selling fish, terribly glad that God made fish, and customers to whom he may call his wares from a pushcart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MIDNIGHT SKATERS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN IT IS FINISHED' by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE NATURAL FIRE by CLIFFORD ALLEN ON SENDING MY SON AS A PRESENT TO DR. SWIFT by MARY BARBER ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD by ROBERT BURNS |