Thoreau writes his poem, “The Fisher’s Son,” in his journal:
My years are like a stroll upon the beach,
As near the ocean’s edge as I can go ;
My tardy steps its waves do oft o’erreach,
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow .
Infinite work my hands find there to do,
Gathering the relics which the waves upeast ;
Each storm doth scour the deep for something new,
And every time the strangest is the last . . .
