Fishing on Steamboat Wharf

High all our prisons,
We can no more out;
Words meant to free us,
Compass us about;
And a sigh means a laugh
And a hymn a battle shout.

But here silence mellows
Starved being into life;
With these dreamy fellows—
Rod, reel and jack-knife—
Even the caught fish are blithe.

Green water laps the spiles,
The silence is golden;
Every little whiles
I am beholden
To a sea captain
Of a time olden.

He puts on the bait
Of quahog, that gets me
A bright little flipper,
Or a plaice fish nets me;
That I’ll haul in a whale
He occasionally bets me.

Silence and fishing,
Sun, understanding;
Fun to see off-islanders
Tack in and miss their landing.
Quiet winks exchanged
While tobacco you’re handing.

No boasting here,
No meanness with minnows;
Commonwealth of Bait
Debts only finn-owes;
And a great quiet kindness
And much color blindness.

Maybe it comes from
Looking down so deep,
Where much is hidden
And much lies asleep;
With your eyes on the line,
Given you to keep.

Quiet pipes lit,
Quiet eyes reflective,
Rips a silver fish
From out the perspective;
To go fishing on the wharf
Is my one great Objective!