The Fishing Fleet

Golden glows the delicate day star,
As just a tiny glittering spark,
In its cold, dark eastern crucible,
Then rising upon a pillar of fire,
The thin stem of a fragile flower,
It blooms into life as our sun,
The bright streams of its sunbeams,
Are its precious blinding petals,
That spill forth holy effulgence,
Which in torrents gilds the clouds,
With a light as thin as gold leaf,
Until it steals the stars from the sky,
And then settling softly upon,
The white waves and night waters,
Of the lonely North Atlantic,
And the flapping flaxen sails,
Which can be heard, snapping,
And straining at their leash,
Whilst muzzling the wilding winds,
And netting the abyssal depths,
A groan of hemp rigging rope,
The creak of mighty English oaks,
Laughing trawler men at work,
For the fleet are on their way out,
Upon the shining sea for the fishing.