Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ANGLING, by CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES SOUTHEY Poet's Biography First Line: My father loved the patient angler's art Last Line: "with pointing finger, and triumphant ""there!" Alternate Author Name(s): Bowles, Caroline Anne Subject(s): Fish & Fishing | ||||||||
MY father loved the patient angler's art; And many a summer day, from early morn To latest evening, by some streamlet's side We two have tarried; strange companionship! A sad and silent man; a joyous child. Yet were those days, as I recall them now, Supremely happy. Silent though he was, My father's eyes were often on his child Tenderly eloquent -- and his few words Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone Repulsed me, if I broke upon his thoughts With childish question. But I learnt at last -- Learnt intuitively to hold my peace When the dark hour was on him, and deep sighs Spoke the perturbed spirit -- only then I crept a little closer to his side, And stole my hand in his, or on his arm Laid my cheek softly; till the simple wile Won on his sad abstraction, and he turn'd With a faint smile, and sigh'd, and shook his head, Stooping toward me; so I reached at last Mine arm about his neck, and clasp'd it close, Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss. That was a lovely brook, by whose green marge We two, (the patient angler and his child) Loiter'd away so many summer days! A shallow sparkling stream, it hurried now Leaping and glancing among large round stones, With everlasting friction chafing still Their polish'd smoothness; on a gravelly bed, Then softly slipt away with rippling sound, Or all inaudible, where the green moss Sloped down to meet the clear reflected wave, That lipp'd its emerald bank with seeming show Of gentle dalliance. In a dark, deep pool Collected now, the peaceful waters slept Embay'd by rugged headlands; hollow roots Of huge old pollard willows. Anchor'd there Rode safe from every gale, a silvan fleet Of milk-white water lilies; every bark Worthy as those on his own sacred flood To waft the Indian Cupid. Then the stream Brawling again o'er pebbly shallows ran, On -- on, to where a rustic, rough-hewn bridge, All bright with mosses and green ivy wreathes, Spann'd the small channel with its single arch; And underneath, the bank on either side Shelved down into the water darkly green With unsunn'd verdure; or whereon the sun Look'd only when his rays at eventide Obliquely glanced between the blacken'd piers With arrowy beams of orient emerald light Touching the river and its velvet marge -- 'Twas there, beneath the archway, just within Its rough misshapen piles, I found a cave, A little secret cell, one large flat stone Its ample floor, embedded deep in moss, And a rich tuft of dark blue violet, And fretted o'er with curious groining dark, Like vault of Gothic chapel was the roof Of that small cunning cave.....Methought The little Naiad of our brook might haunt That cool retreat, and to her guardian care My wont was ever, at the bridge arrived, To trust our basket, with its ample store Of home-made, wholesome cates; by one at home Provided for our banquet-hour at noon. A joyful hour! anticipated keen With zest of youthful appetite I trow, Full oft expelling unsubstantial thoughts Of grots and naiads, sublimated fare -- The busy, bustling joy, with housewife airs (Directress, handmaid, lady of the feast!) To spread that "table in the wilderness!" The spot selected with deliberate care, Fastidious from variety of choice, Where all was beautiful. Some pleasant nook Among the fringing alders: or beneath A single spreading oak: or higher up Within the thicket, a more secret bower, A little clearing carpeted all o'er With creeping strawberry, and greenest moss Thick vein'd with ivy. There unfolded smooth The snowy napkin (carefully secured At every corner with a pebbly weight,) Was spread prelusive; fairly garnish'd soon With the contents (most interesting then) Of the well-plenish'd basket: simple viands, And sweet brown bread, and biscuits for dessert, And rich ripe cherries; and two slender flasks, Of cider one, and one of sweet new milk, Mine own allotted beverage, temper'd down From the near streamlet. Two small silver cup Set our grand buffet -- and all was done; But there I stood immovable, entranced, Absorb'd in admiration -- shifting oft My ground contemplative, to reperuse In every point of view the perfect whole Of that arrangement, mine own handiwork. Then glancing skyward, if my dazzled eyes Shrank from the sunbeams, vertically bright, Away, away, toward the river's brink I ran to summon from his silent sport My father to the banquet; tutor'd well, As I approach'd his station, to restrain All noisy outbreak of exuberant glee; Lest from their quiet haunts the finny prey Should dart far off to deeper solitudes. The gentle summons met observance prompt Kindly considerate of the famish'd child: And all in order left -- the mimic fly Examined and renew'd, if need required, Or changed for other sort, as time of day, Or clear or clouded sky, or various signs Of atmosphere or water, so advised Th' experienced angler; the long line afloat -- The rod securely fix'd; then into mine The willing hand was yielded, and I led With joyous exultation that dear guest To our green banquet-room. Not Leicester's self, When to the hall of princely Kenilworth He led Elizabeth, exulted more With inward gratulation at the show Of his own proud magnificence, than I, When full in view of mine arranged feast, I held awhile my pleased companion back, Exacting wonder -- admiration, praise, With pointing finger, and triumphant "There!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOURNEY INTO THE EYE by DAVID LEHMAN THE GREAT BLACK HERON by DENISE LEVERTOV ISLA MUJERES by WILLIAM MATTHEWS SCHOOLS OF LITTLE FISH by MARVIN BELL TWO PICTURES OF A LEAF by MARVIN BELL OF FISH AND FISHERMEN by JOHN CIARDI THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED by CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES SOUTHEY |
|