ON SENDING ME A SEVEN-POUND TROUT.
1.
Fit for an Abbot of Theleme,
For the whole Cardinals' College, or
The Pope himself to see in dream
Before his lenten vision gleam,
He lies there,—the sogdologer!
2.
His precious flanks with stars besprent,
Worthy to swim in Castaly!
The friend by whom such gifts are sent,—
For him shall bumpers full be spent,—
His health! be Luck his fast ally!
3.
I see him trace the wayward brook
Amid the forest mysteries,
Where at themselves shy aspens look,
Or where, with many a gurgling crook,
It croons its woodland histories.
4.
I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend
Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude
To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling bend,—
(O, stew him, Ann, as 't were your friend,
With amorous solicitude!)
5.