St. Andrew's Eve Poem by Cicely Fox Smith

The last night of November
All dreaming as I lay,
I saw a fisher toiling
In stormy seas and grey, -

A glimmering seine-net casting
In foam as white as wool . . .
And sometimes it came empty,
And sometimes it came full.

That port that fisher hailed from
Was the port of Heaven above:
The shining net he cast there
Was the net of Christ His love.

That seine it shone like silver
Or the Milky Way come down . . .
And, oh! the catch he took there
Was the souls of those who drown.