I KNOW a pool where the river, Sunlit and still, Slips by a bank of wild roses Down from the mill; There do I linger when summer makes glorious Valley and hill. Somewhere the song of a skylark Melts into air, Butterflies float through the sunshine, June's everywhere; Nature in fact, shows an amiable jollity I do not share. For in the shade of the alders, Scornful of flies, There is a trout that no cunning Coaxes to rise, Sly as Ulysses, and doubtful as Didymus, Mammoth in size. And when the Mayfly battalions Flutter and skin, When all the others are filling Baskets abrim, I spend the cream of a fisherman's carnival Casting at him; Seeing in fancy my hackle Seized with a flounce Hearing the reel racing madly Under his pounce, Knowing at last all the pounds of his magnitude— (Eight of an ounce!) But of my drakes and my sedges None make the kill, None tempt him up from his fastness Under the mill, And, for I saw him as lately as Saturday, There he is still. Thus do Life's triumphs elude us, Yet it may be Some afternoon, when the keeper Goes to his tea, That, if a lob-worm were dropped unofficially— Well, we shall see. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BEST [THING IN THE WORLD] by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 18 by OMAR KHAYYAM AN ALPINE DESCENT by SAMUEL ROGERS THE LIP AND THE HEART by JOHN QUINCY ADAMS THORWALDSEN by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |