Classic Poem

The blossoms of the awthorn shook adown
By tastless winds fall on the oer shadowd stream
& as they float the watching fish leaps up
To catch the fancied prize yet never cares
To touch the anglers bait that close beside
Lyes waiting while the patient angler sit[s]
Killing blank time with pastimes frivolous
& vague now gathering flowers around his seat & now
Watching the little pismires at their toil
That numberless crowd round the crumb he drops