TROUT--FISHING <br /> <br />This morning, through my window, half awake, <br />I felt the south wind blow; and presently, <br />With a tumultuous thrill and then a shake, <br />The nightingale broke forth in melody. <br />I rose in haste, and looked at the grey sky, <br />And read an omen. From its corner next <br />A book I drew, blest book, where fly on fly <br />Are all the letters of its well--thumbed text. <br /> <br />I chose my cast, a march--brown and a dun, <br />And ran down to the river, chasing hope. <br />At the first throw a mighty trout was on, <br />A very Samson, fit to burst a rope, <br />Yet tamed by one sad hank of yielding hair <br />And Fate, the fisherman of King and Pope. <br />Upon the grass he lies, and gasps the air, <br />Four silver pounds, sublimely fat and fair.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-idler-s-calendar-twelve-sonnets-for-the-months-april/
