Classic Poem

Ah, the shriek of the reel, the trout-fisher's reel!
No sound is so sweet to the ear;
The hum of the line, the buzz of the wheel!
Where the crystalline brook runs so clear.

Here's a shade on the stream where the willows bend down,
Where the waters sleep drowsy and dim,
And there where the ripples whirl amber and brown
The lords of the rivulets swim.

Then fling the light tackle with delicate cast,
Let your fly like a cobweb alight,
A dash and a splash, and the victim is fast,
While your reel sings a song of delight.

See, yonder a green-moss'd boulder enchecks
The stress of the turbulent tides,
And there amid bubbles and foam-bell flecks
The gold-spotted brook-trout hides.

The sweet breezes blow, the morning sun shines,
The white clouds drift slow down the sky;
'Tis a day that is perfect for sport with the lines,
For artistic cast of the fly.

Ah, haste to the shore, brother angler, to-day,
On the weedy gray rock take your place,
Where the surf, at its base, makes glorious race,
And, like rainbows, glitters the spray!

Cast your eye o'er the blue expanses of sea;
How lovely, how grand is the scene!
The great rolling waves, now dusky, now green,
Forever rejoicing and free,

See the flash of the bluefish over the main,
The gleam of the bright striped bass!
Then the braided line fling, let the reel hum its strain,
And so the gay moments shall pass.