Prelude
An Angler’s Wish in Town
When tulips bloom in Union Square,And timid breaths of vernal airAre wandering down the dusty town,Like children lost in Vanity Fair;
When every long, unlovely rowOf westward houses stands aglowAnd leads the eyes toward sunset skies,Beyond the hills where green trees grow;
Then weary is the street parade,And weary books, and weary trade:I’m only wishing to go a-fishing;For this the month of May was made.
I guess the pussy-willows nowAre creeping out on every boughAlong the brook; and robins lookFor early worms behind the plough.
The thistle-birds have changed their dunFor yellow coats to match the sun;And in the same array of flameThe Dandelion Show’s begun.
The flocks of young anemonesAre dancing round the budding trees:Who can help wishing to go a-fishingIn days as full of joy as these?
I think the meadow-lark’s clear soundLeaks upward slowly from the ground,While on the wing the bluebirds ringTheir wedding-bells to woods around:
The flirting chewink calls his dearBehind the bush; and very near,Where water flows, where green grass grows,Song-sparrows gently sing, “Good cheer:”
And, best of all, through twilight’s calmThe hermit-thrush repeats his psalm:How much I’m wishing to go a-fishingIn days so sweet with music’s balm!
’Tis not a proud desire of mine;I ask for nothing superfine;No heavy weight, no salmon great,To break the record, or my line:
Only an idle little stream,Whose amber waters softly gleam,Where I may wade, through woodland shade,And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:
Only a trout or two, to dartFrom foaming pools, and try my art:No more I’m wishing—old-fashioned fishing,And just a day on Nature’s heart.
1894.