Sitting
in a leaky boat,
Aching
neck and scorching throat,
Clinging
on a fish-pole tight,
Waiting
for a little bite,
Am I.
All
my “castles” for a year,
As
the sunsets disappear.
Not
a scale, so o’er I chuck
Pole
and line and c___s the luck,
Goodbye.
Feb.
1, 1891
Pub.
in Camb. Press
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