My feet grew eager, my eyes grew wide,
And I was off by the brown brook’s side.
Down in the swamp-bottom, cool and dim,
I cut me an alder sapling slim.
With nimble fingers I tied my line,
Clear as a sunbeam, strong and fine.
My fly was a tiny glittering thing,
With tinselled body and partridge wing.
With noiseless steps I threaded the wood,
Glad of the sun-pierced solitude.