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 to 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.
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?
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: ‘ Tis all I'm wishing — old-fashioned fishing, And just a day on Nature's heart.
Cookies on Poetry Cove