n8 ARBOR DAY 



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 ? 



in 



I think the meadow-lark's clear sound 

 Leaks upward slowly from the ground, 

 While on the wing the blue-birds 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 much 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 : 



