  I go a-gunning, but take no gun; I fish without a pole; And I bag good game and catch such fish As suit a sportsman's soul; For the choicest game that the forest holds, And the best fish of the brook, Are never brought down by a rifle shot And are never caught with a hook. I bob for fish by the forest brook, I hunt for game in the trees, For bigger birds than wing the air Or fish that swim the seas. A rodless Walton of the brooks A bloodless sportsman, I— I hunt for the thoughts that throng the woods, The dreams that haunt the sky. The woods were made for the hunters of dreams, The brooks for the fishers of song; To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game The streams and the woods belong. There are thoughts that moan from the soul of the pine, And thoughts in a flower bell curled; And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the fern Are as new and as old as the world. —Sam Walter Foss. |
|
