Far from the jostling market’s noisy tongue,
        Forth from the hold they cast their pearly store,
With salt in showers, and count, “One,” “Two,”
    “Three,” “Four,”
The gleaming fish from crate to cask are flung,
Alternate snow and silver; while, among
The multitudinous barrels piled on shore,
With chalk in hand, the deft-eyed merchants pore,
And packing hammers merrily are swung.
Then, as the hulls from out the painted tide
Rise, and the decks are cleansed from fishing stain,
The nets are folded and the ropes are coiled
Fit for the next night’s labour.  “God,” I cried,
“If those aboard Christ’s Ship of Truth so toiled,
We should not fish the deeps of man in vain.”

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 175)