We Fish

We fish, we fish, we merrily swim,
We care not for friend nor for foe.
    Our fins are stout,
    Our tails are out,
As through the seas we go.

Fish, Fish, we are fish with red gills;
Naught disturbs us, our blood is at zero:
We are buoyant because of our bags,
Being many, each fish is a hero.
We care not what is it, this life
That we follow, this phantom unknown;
To swim, it's exceedingly pleasant,--
So swim away, making a foam.
This strange looking thing by our side,
Not for safety, around it we flee:--
Its shadow's so shady, that's all,--
We only swim under its lee.
And as for the eels there above,
And as for the fowls of the air,
We care not for them nor their ways,
As we cheerily glide afar!

We fish, we fish, we merrily swim,
We care not for friend nor for foe:
    Our fins are stout,
    Our tails are out,
As through the seas we go.

Herman Melville

Herman Melville was an American novelist, short story writer, and poet of the American Renaissance period. His most famous work, Moby-Dick, was published in 1851 and initially was not a commercial success. Melville's writing draws on his experiences at sea, philosophical musings, and criticisms of society. While he died in relative obscurity, his reputation grew significantly in the 20th century, and he is now considered one of America’s greatest writers. Melville’s other works include Typee, White-Jacket, and Billy Budd.

Herman Melville

A Grave near Petersburg, Virginia.

Herman Melville, Simple Poetry

Commemorative Of A Naval Victory

Herman Melville, Simple Poetry

On The Slain Collegians

Herman Melville, Simple Poetry

Malvern Hill

Herman Melville, Simple Poetry

English

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Pebbles

I
Though the Clerk of the Weather insist,
And lay down the weather-law,
Pintado and gannet they wist
That the winds blow whither they list
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II
Old are the creeds, but stale the schools,
Revamped as the mode may veer,
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And, finding a Conch hoar with time, he delays
And reverent lifts it to ear.
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Shall it swerve? shall it deviate ever?
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III
In hollows of the liquid hills
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The flattery of no echo thrills,
For echo the seas have none;
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Wallowing in this bloody sty,
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My canvas creel until the moth
Corrupted its unstable cloth.

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How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles
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And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?

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John Marr And Other Sailors

Since as in night's deck-watch ye show,
Why, lads, so silent here to me,
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Life is storm--let storm! you rung.
Taking things as fated merely,
Childlike though the world ye spanned;
Nor holding unto life too dearly,
Ye who held your lives in hand--
Skimmers, who on oceans four
Petrels were, and larks ashore.

O, not from memory lightly flung,
Forgot, like strains no more availing,
The heart to music haughtier strung;
Nay, frequent near me, never staleing,
Whose good feeling kept ye young.
Like tides that enter creek or stream,
Ye come, ye visit me, or seem
Swim...

Herman Melville