  MAYBE this is fun, sitting in the sun, With a book and parasol, as my angler wishes, While he dips his line in the ocean brine, Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes. ’Tis romantic—yes, but I must confess Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting. But I dare not move—“Quiet there, my love!” Says my angler, “for I think a monster fish is biting.” Oh, of course, it’s bliss—but how hot it is! And the rock I’m sitting on grows harder every minute; Still my fisher waits, trying various baits, But the basket at his side, I see, has nothing in it. Oh, it’s just the way to pass a July day, Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming; But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way that insect crawls Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming. “Any luck?” I gently ask of the angler at his task; “There’s something pulling at my line,” he says; “I’ve almost caught it.” But when, with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace, We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it. |
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