  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, |
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