The Fisherman Nad Sylvan

Although I can see him still
The freckled man who goes
To a gray place on a hill
In gray Connemara clothes

At dawn to cast his flies
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man

All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped it would be
To write for my own race
And the reality:

The living men that I hate
The dead man that I loved
The craven man in his seat
The insolent unreproved

And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at thе commonest ear

The clеver man who cries
The catch cries of the clown
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down