An Angler's Wish

I when tulips bloom in Union Square, And timid breaths of vernal air Go wandering down the dusty town, Like children lost in Vanity Fair; When every long, unlovely row Of westward houses stands aglow, And leads the eyes towards sunset skies Beyond the hills where green trees grow,— 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 blue-birds 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 ’T is 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.