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- BUT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand,
- Swinging his rod with skilful hand;
- The fly at the end of his gossamer line
- Swims through the sun like a summer moth,
- Till, dropt with a careful precision fine,
- It touches the pool beyond the froth.
- A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook
- Darts from his cover and seizes the hook.
- Swift spins the reel; with easy slip
- The line pays out, and the rod like a whip,
- Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim,
- Is bent to a bow o'er the brooklet's brim,
- Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings
- The spray from the flash of his finny wings;
- Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright,
- Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge,
- Till beached at last on the sandy marge,
- Where he dies with the hues of the morning light,
- While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright.
- The angler in his basket lays
- The constellation, and goes his ways.
- Thomas Buchanan Read
Poets' Corner .
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