ANGLING IN THE PLATTE
On a log beside the Platte,
With my tackle and my basket,
Sitting where I long have sat,
I am fishing! Should you ask it?
Idling,—dreaming time away!
Thinking many happy thoughts to-day.
Fleeting moments never heeding,
While the hungry fishes feeding,
Still I watch and still I wait;
Let the minnows steal my bait!
Mine—mine is the pleasure and repose—
That the never-fretting, catch-forgetting, gladness netting angler only knows.
Tired worker—up! away!
Leave thy labors for a day.
At the river life is sweet;
At the river we shall meet.
Rest and play! Rejoice and be gay!
Recreation has its season.
Put thy cark and care away,
(Death from over-work to-day is clearly out of reason!)
Comrade,—cheerless comrade, break thy bondage and be free;
Nature’s self will welcome thee;
Countless blessings she can give,
Come with nature, then, and live.
Nodding, nodding, napping by the brook,
With no bait upon my hook;
Dreaming dreams of summer sweet.
While the ripples kiss my feet.
While the wind blows through my hair,
Know I not an earthly care.
Oh, the restful, rapturous repose
That the care-dispelling, mirth-compelling, sometimes story-telling, always joyful angler only knows.
On a log beside the Platte,
With my tackle and my basket,
Sitting where I long have sat;—
Am I fishing?—can you—really can you ask it?