Follow me.
And I will make you fishers of men.
My fishing line was on the boat’s lea.
I hoped to catch something, but the question was when.

There are few things more pleasurable than fishing at sea when the shrouds sing.
The line runs, the time passes, I watch the boat’s way.
I don’t need to catch anything.
All that I catch I throw back anyway.

I will never catch any men.
First I should catch myself, I am forsook.
My line is laid out in yards of ten.
But after a lifetime not one pull on the hook.

I will try again and again.
One day I may succeed, one day the sun may shine again after these showers of rain.