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A writer is congenitally unable to tell the truth and that is why we call what he writes fiction. - William Faulkner

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	  THE FISHERWOMAN

"Who  knocks? I won't get up. I will not open
The spray-soaked door of this old hut. How chill
And how uneasy are the nights of autumn!
And yet its dawns are more uneasy still."

"Is it the wind's moan as it louder grows
That scares you or, perhaps, the rasping sound
Of pebbles by the waves rolled round and round?"
"No, I'm unwell, and there's a draft, it blows."

"I'll wait until the storm-drunk waves are sober,
Till they are quelled, and through the window pane
And down on to the bench there streams again
The pallid, tarnished gold of mid-October."

"Begone! Another spent the night with me.
He's bold and does not fear the wind and sea."

1908