>In case anyone asks—yes, I am doing my Yeats homework. What poem is this from?
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face
And gray Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark with froth,
And the down turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream—
A man who does not exist, . . .
(The Fisherman by Yeats)