I When tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air Go wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;
When every long, unlovely row Of westward houses stands aglow,
And leads the eyes to sunset skies Beyond the hills where green trees grow;
Then wearly seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
I'm only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.
II I guess the pussy-willows now Are creeping out on every bough Along the brook; and robins look For early worms behind the plough.
The thistle-birds have changed their dun,
For yellow coats, to match the sun;
And in the same array of flame The Dandelion Show's begun.
The flocks of young anemones Are dancing round the budding trees:
Who can help wishing to go a-fishing In days as full of joy as these?
II I think the meadow-lark's clear sound Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the bluebirds ring Their wedding-bells to woods around.
The flirting chewink calls his dear Behind the bush; and very near,
Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer." And, best of all, through twilight's calm The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm.
How mush I'm wishing to go a-fishing In days so sweet with music's balm!
IV 'Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
No heavy weight, no salmon great,
To break the record, or my line.
Only an idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
Where I may wade, through woodland shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:
Only a trout or two, to dart >From foaming pools, and try my art: 'Tis all I'm wishing—old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature's heart.
