For
a year I have been wishing,
That
again I might go fishing,
So
I left the city’s rumble for the quiet country stream;
And the joy that flickered o’er me
When I saw the lake before me,
Was
a thing I should imagine very like a poet’s dream.
In the skiff I soon was seated,
And most gloriously was heated,
With
the July sun roasting like the Hades that we hear;
And I waited, waited, waited,
With my Limerick well baited,
And
the only bite I noticed was upon my shady ear.
O, ye gods, and little fishes!
Unto Sheol, fish and wishes!
Thus
I muttered, hot and thirsty, when my homeward way I took;
Then to Quincy Market went I,
And an even dollar spent I,
Where
one finds fish in plenty that will bite a silver hook.
July
25, ‘95
Boston
Courier,
August
4, ‘95
Sheol - the abode of the dead in early Hebrew thought.
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