THE Ai^GLER'S FLOWERS. 



BY CRAVEN. 



^E 



OT lonely is the angler's mood, 

 Although he must in solitude, 

 On moorland bank, in verdant wood. 

 With stealth beguile the finny brood. 



For friends of many a bye-gone day, 

 Still greet him on his silent way : 

 Not words, but glances soft and gay, 

 A thousand things at once do say. 



The crowfoot, bearded leaves between. 

 Makes dimples in the water's sheen ; 

 Like white-smocked playmates these I ween, 

 Laughing from out their cradles green. 



A country maiden in the wood, 

 Coquettish, and yet understood, 

 Anemone beneath her hood. 

 Once more the fisher's heart doth flood. 



Or, by the edge of fragrant groves. 

 As o'er the bank he gently moves, 

 Sweet Cicely hid, her presence proves, 

 For Viola-like, unseen she loves. 



