To a Fish
-- James Leigh Hunt (1784 - 1859)
You strange,
astonished-looking, angle-faced,
Dreary-mouthed,
gaping wretches of the sea,
Gulping salt
water everlastingly,
Cold-blooded,
though with red your blood be graced,
And mute, though
dwellers in the roaring waste;
And you, all
shapes beside, that fishy be--
Some round,
some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unmoving,
infamously chaste:
O scaly, slippery,
wet, swift, staring wights,
What is't ye
do? What life lead? eh, dull goggles?
How do ye vary
your vile days and nights?
How pass your
Sundays? Are ye still but joggles
In ceaseless
wash? Still naught but gapes and bites,
And drinks and
stares, diversified with boggles?
A Fish Answers
AMAZING monster!
that for aught I know,
With the first
sight of thee didst make our race
For ever stare!
O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided
from the breast below!
Thou that on
dry land horribly dost go
With a split
body and most ridiculous pace,
Prong after
prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finned,
haired, upright, unwet, slow!
O breather of
unbreathable, sword-sharp air,
How canst exist?
How bear thyself, thou dry
And dreary sloth?
What particle canst share
Of the only
blessed life, the watery?
I sometimes
see of ye an actual pair
Go by! linked
fin by fin! most odiously. |