AN OLD-TIMER
Here where the wayward stream
Is restful as a dream,
And where the banks o’erlook
A pool from out whose deeps
My pleased face upward peeps,
I cast my hook.
Silence and sunshine blent!—
A Sabbath-like content
Of wood and wave;—a free-
Hand landscape grandly wrought
Of Summer’s brightest thought
And mastery.—
For here form, light and shade,
And color—all are laid
With skill so rarely fine,
The eye may even see
The ripple tremblingly
Lip at the line.
I mark the dragon-fly
Flit waveringly by
In ever-veering flight,
Till, in a hush profound,
I see him eddy round
The “cork,” and—’light!
Ho! with the boy’s faith then
Brimming my heart again,
And knowing, soon or late,
The “nibble” yet shall roll
Its thrills along the pole,
I—breathless—wait.