THE NET

The net brings up, how long and languidly,

A million vivid quiverings of life,

Keen-finned and gleaming like a steely knife,

All colors, green and silver of the sea,

All forms of skill and eagerness to be —

They die and wither of the very breath

That sounds your pity of their lavish death

While they are leaping, star-like, to be free.

They die and wither, but the aged sea,

Insane old salty womb of mystery,

Is pregnant with a million million more,

Whom she will suckle in her oozy floor,

Whom she will vomit on a heedless shore,

While onward her immortal currents pour.