LOVE AT FISHING.PUTone arm here, and with the other flingThe silken string,Steel hook, and gadfly bait into the cool,Transparent pool,And drive love’s prattle tiptoe ’cross the lip,Or let it turn to language-gaze, and sipIts honey from a stillness. Watch the dipAnd glimmer of the cork, and how they slip—The scarlet fish—below the water, likeThe thoughts that strikeAthwart the mind. How else could lovers wishThan thus to fish?Though I have cut no strand of yellow hairTo spin my silken cord from what you wear,In long warm tresses over face, to stareThrough quaintly; nor a golden hook to snareThe water’s fruit! or more than this cool nook,With that one lookBetween the willow branches at the skyFrom where we lie,Edged round with ribbon grasses tangled inThe lover’s knots, as if they meant to winLove hither by a meaning that is kin;For nature holds love’s thought and origin!That bird dropped down upon the pool’s near hemLike a red gem,Shook off the hand; and left a vision glint,That faint song-print—Just gone.... Mark how the fishes flit and chase,Lit to a passion, ’cross the water’s face—So like the minutes moving in the spaceOf this one day. What are the words they traceTherein?... That bird flew to its nest just nowUpon the bough.The stooping sun trails long red fingers throughThe grass. The dewSlips off the willow leaves. It cannot beThe day is over, and the fish still free—Except the fish of happiness that weHave caught; with love’s gold ring for you and me!Edward A. Valentine.
LOVE AT FISHING.
PUTone arm here, and with the other flingThe silken string,Steel hook, and gadfly bait into the cool,Transparent pool,And drive love’s prattle tiptoe ’cross the lip,Or let it turn to language-gaze, and sipIts honey from a stillness. Watch the dipAnd glimmer of the cork, and how they slip—The scarlet fish—below the water, likeThe thoughts that strikeAthwart the mind. How else could lovers wishThan thus to fish?Though I have cut no strand of yellow hairTo spin my silken cord from what you wear,In long warm tresses over face, to stareThrough quaintly; nor a golden hook to snareThe water’s fruit! or more than this cool nook,With that one lookBetween the willow branches at the skyFrom where we lie,Edged round with ribbon grasses tangled inThe lover’s knots, as if they meant to winLove hither by a meaning that is kin;For nature holds love’s thought and origin!That bird dropped down upon the pool’s near hemLike a red gem,Shook off the hand; and left a vision glint,That faint song-print—Just gone.... Mark how the fishes flit and chase,Lit to a passion, ’cross the water’s face—So like the minutes moving in the spaceOf this one day. What are the words they traceTherein?... That bird flew to its nest just nowUpon the bough.The stooping sun trails long red fingers throughThe grass. The dewSlips off the willow leaves. It cannot beThe day is over, and the fish still free—Except the fish of happiness that weHave caught; with love’s gold ring for you and me!Edward A. Valentine.
PUTone arm here, and with the other flingThe silken string,Steel hook, and gadfly bait into the cool,Transparent pool,And drive love’s prattle tiptoe ’cross the lip,Or let it turn to language-gaze, and sipIts honey from a stillness. Watch the dipAnd glimmer of the cork, and how they slip—The scarlet fish—below the water, likeThe thoughts that strikeAthwart the mind. How else could lovers wishThan thus to fish?Though I have cut no strand of yellow hairTo spin my silken cord from what you wear,In long warm tresses over face, to stareThrough quaintly; nor a golden hook to snareThe water’s fruit! or more than this cool nook,With that one lookBetween the willow branches at the skyFrom where we lie,Edged round with ribbon grasses tangled inThe lover’s knots, as if they meant to winLove hither by a meaning that is kin;For nature holds love’s thought and origin!That bird dropped down upon the pool’s near hemLike a red gem,Shook off the hand; and left a vision glint,That faint song-print—Just gone.... Mark how the fishes flit and chase,Lit to a passion, ’cross the water’s face—So like the minutes moving in the spaceOf this one day. What are the words they traceTherein?... That bird flew to its nest just nowUpon the bough.The stooping sun trails long red fingers throughThe grass. The dewSlips off the willow leaves. It cannot beThe day is over, and the fish still free—Except the fish of happiness that weHave caught; with love’s gold ring for you and me!Edward A. Valentine.
PUTone arm here, and with the other flingThe silken string,Steel hook, and gadfly bait into the cool,Transparent pool,And drive love’s prattle tiptoe ’cross the lip,Or let it turn to language-gaze, and sipIts honey from a stillness. Watch the dipAnd glimmer of the cork, and how they slip—The scarlet fish—below the water, likeThe thoughts that strikeAthwart the mind. How else could lovers wishThan thus to fish?Though I have cut no strand of yellow hairTo spin my silken cord from what you wear,In long warm tresses over face, to stareThrough quaintly; nor a golden hook to snareThe water’s fruit! or more than this cool nook,With that one lookBetween the willow branches at the skyFrom where we lie,Edged round with ribbon grasses tangled inThe lover’s knots, as if they meant to winLove hither by a meaning that is kin;For nature holds love’s thought and origin!
PUTone arm here, and with the other fling
The silken string,
Steel hook, and gadfly bait into the cool,
Transparent pool,
And drive love’s prattle tiptoe ’cross the lip,
Or let it turn to language-gaze, and sip
Its honey from a stillness. Watch the dip
And glimmer of the cork, and how they slip—
The scarlet fish—below the water, like
The thoughts that strike
Athwart the mind. How else could lovers wish
Than thus to fish?
Though I have cut no strand of yellow hair
To spin my silken cord from what you wear,
In long warm tresses over face, to stare
Through quaintly; nor a golden hook to snare
The water’s fruit! or more than this cool nook,
With that one look
Between the willow branches at the sky
From where we lie,
Edged round with ribbon grasses tangled in
The lover’s knots, as if they meant to win
Love hither by a meaning that is kin;
For nature holds love’s thought and origin!
That bird dropped down upon the pool’s near hemLike a red gem,Shook off the hand; and left a vision glint,That faint song-print—Just gone.... Mark how the fishes flit and chase,Lit to a passion, ’cross the water’s face—So like the minutes moving in the spaceOf this one day. What are the words they traceTherein?... That bird flew to its nest just nowUpon the bough.The stooping sun trails long red fingers throughThe grass. The dewSlips off the willow leaves. It cannot beThe day is over, and the fish still free—Except the fish of happiness that weHave caught; with love’s gold ring for you and me!
That bird dropped down upon the pool’s near hem
Like a red gem,
Shook off the hand; and left a vision glint,
That faint song-print—
Just gone.... Mark how the fishes flit and chase,
Lit to a passion, ’cross the water’s face—
So like the minutes moving in the space
Of this one day. What are the words they trace
Therein?... That bird flew to its nest just now
Upon the bough.
The stooping sun trails long red fingers through
The grass. The dew
Slips off the willow leaves. It cannot be
The day is over, and the fish still free—
Except the fish of happiness that we
Have caught; with love’s gold ring for you and me!
Edward A. Valentine.
Edward A. Valentine.