The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
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The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream;
And what is it all, when all is done?
The net of the fisher the burden breaks,
And always the dreaming the dreamer wakes.

Praise be to Nero's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which read more

Praise be to Nero's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which Side Are You On?"
And Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers.

Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
Away to the west as the sun went down;
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Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
Away to the west as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town.

And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of
men.

And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of
men.

Oh the brave Fisher's life,
It is the best of any,
'Tis full of pleasure, void of read more

Oh the brave Fisher's life,
It is the best of any,
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And 'tis belov'd of many:
Other joys Are but toys;
Only this Lawful is,
For our skill Breeds no ill,
But content and pleasure.

The fishers also shall mourn, and all they that cast angle into
the brooks shall lament, and they that read more

The fishers also shall mourn, and all they that cast angle into
the brooks shall lament, and they that spread nets upon the
waters shall languish.

No man is born an Artist nor an Angler.

No man is born an Artist nor an Angler.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually read more

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends
think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana
where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not
start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic
half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my
soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a
four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

He who holds the hook is aware in what waters many fish are
swimming.
[Lat., Qui sustinet hamos,
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He who holds the hook is aware in what waters many fish are
swimming.
[Lat., Qui sustinet hamos,
Novit, quae multo pisce natentur aquae.]