I know a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble in January. He dangles herring before prospective customers evincing a joy identical with that of Pavlowa dancing. His face is that of a man terribly glad to be selling fish, terribly glad that God made fish, and customers to whom he may call his wares from a pushcart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ADVICE TO A RAVEN IN RUSSIA by JOEL BARLOW A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 40 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN EIGHT O'CLOCK by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE LOW-BACKED CAR by SAMUEL LOVER THE CAMP-FOLLOWER by MAXWELL BODENHEIM |