The Angler

BUT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand,

Swinging his rod with skilful hand;

The fly at the end of his gossamer line

    Swims through the sun like a summer moth,

Till, dropt with a careful precision fine,

    It touches the pool beyond the froth.

A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook

Darts from his cover and seizes the hook.

Swift spins the reel; with easy slip

The line pays out, and the rod like a whip,

Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim,

Is bent to a bow o'er the brooklet's brim,

Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings

The spray from the flash of his finny wings;

Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright,

    Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge,

    Till beached at last on the sandy marge,

Where he dies with the hues of the morning light,

While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright.

The angler in his basket lays

The constellation, and goes his ways.

Thomas Buchanan Read