Then weary seems 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.

II

  I guess the pussy-willows now
  Are creeping out on every bough
    Along the brook; and robins look
  For early worms behind the plough.

  The thistle-birds have changed their dun,
  For yellow coats, to match the sun;
    And in the same array of flame
  The Dandelion Show’s begun.

  The flocks of young anemones
  Are dancing round the budding trees: 
    Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
  In days as full of joy as these?

III

  I think the meadow-lark’s clear sound
  Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
    While on the wing the bluebirds ring
  Their wedding-bells to woods around.

  The flirting chewink calls his dear
  Behind 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 calm
  The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm. 
    How much I’m wishing to go a-fishing
  In days so sweet with music’s balm!

IV

  ’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 dart
  From foaming pools, and try my art: 
    ’Tis all I’m wishing—­old-fashioned fishing,
  And just a day on Nature’s heart.

1894.

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

  Do you remember, father,—­
    It seems so long ago,—­
  The day we fished together
    Along the Pocono? 
  At dusk I waited for you,
    Beside the lumber-mill,
  And there I heard a hidden bird
    That chanted, “whip-poor-will,”
    “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”
    Sad and shrill,—­“whippoorwill!”

  The place was all deserted;
    The mill-wheel hung at rest;
  The lonely star of evening
    Was throbbing in the west;
  The veil of night was falling;
    The winds were folded still;
  And everywhere the trembling air
    Re-echoed “whip-poor-will!”
    “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”
    Sad and shrill,—­“whippoorwill!”

  You seemed so long in coming,
    I felt so much alone;
  The wide, dark world was round me,
    And life was all unknown;
  The hand of sorrow touched me,
    And made my senses thrill
  With all the pain that haunts the strain
    Of mournful whip-poor-will.
    “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”
    Sad and shrill,—­“whippoorwill!”