The fisherman napped with a pole in his hand,
with his mind drifting away in a distant dreamland.
With his eyes closed, he had not seen
The fog cover so thick, like a white screen.
He opened his eyes to this eerie scene.
"What should I do, how do I know
the way I am supposed to go?"
"How do I know the way I am supposed to go?"
He looked ahead, then behind,
And then set off with oars a-grind.
Then his paddle scraped and he ran aground.
The shore! An escape from death was found!
So he headed back to his hovel,
threw open the door and announced his arrival.
His bride inside, standing still in the room,
statuesque in a silent gloom,
still facing away from her groom!
Outside the night brought a final chill.
In her crib the baby lies still.
The stove-clock no longer ticks
A cloud of flies motionless in mid-air sticks.
His son stands frozen with an open-mouthed stare,
Watching the cat frozen mid-leap from a chair...