WHEN the sheep on the brae are lying still And the lone lake waters weep, When the pale-faced moon comes over the hill And my brothers and sisters sleep, I wander out by the brooklet's edge Where moon-limned waters run, And see the fays from the trailing sedge Come silently one by one — Come silently out to fish for trout With a hook of silver fine, A rye-grass stalk for a fishing-rod, And a gossamer thread for line. But there is n't a fish in all the brook, And it's me that ought to know, For I caught the little minnows and took Them with me long ago — I lifted them up from the golden sand Into my pannikin small, Yet the fairies stay till the dawn of day And never catch one at all. I took the little minnows myself And left them down in the well, As nobody saw me place them there, Sure no one at all can tell The fairy fishers where they are gone, The pretty wee fish inside The well that is marked by St. Colum's cross And the cross of good Saint Bride! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO TREES IN KATHMANDU by KAREN SWENSON STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE PURPLE COW by FRANK GELETT BURGESS ONE PERSON: 16 by ELINOR WYLIE SONG, FR. ARTAXERXES (OPERA) by THOMAS AUGUSTINE ARNE HIS PRAYER TO PECUNIA by RICHARD BARNFIELD WATER SPORT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN A VERSION OF THE OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |