  When tulips bloom in Union Square, And timid breaths of vernal air Are wandering down the dusty town, Like children lost in Vanity Fair; When every long, unlovely row Of westward houses stands aglow And leads the eyes toward sunset skies, Beyond the hills where green trees grow; Then weary is the street parade, And weary books, and weary trade: I’m only wishing to go a-fishing; For this the month of May was made. ~~~ I guess the pussy-willows now Are creeping out on every bough Along the brook; and robins look For early worms behind the plough. For yellow coats to match the sun; And in the same array of flame The Dandelion Show’s begun. The flocks of young anemones Are dancing round the budding trees: Who can help wishing to go a-fishing In days as full of joy as these? ~~~ I think the meadow-lark’s clear sound Leaks upward slowly from the ground, While on the wing the bluebirds ring Their wedding-bells to woods around: The flirting chewink calls his dear Behind the bush; and very near, Where water flows, where green grass grows, Song-sparrows gently sing, “Good cheer:” And, best of all, through twilight’s calm The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm: How much I’m wishing to go a-fishing In days so sweet with music’s balm! ~~~ I ask for nothing superfine; No heavy weight, no salmon great, To break the record, or my line: Only an idle little stream, Whose amber waters softly gleam, Where I may wade, through woodland shade, And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream: Only a trout or two, to dart From foaming pools, and try my art: No more I’m wishing—old-fashioned fishing, |
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