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!

'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:

No more I'm wishing--old-fashioned fishing, And just a day on Nature's heart.

1894.