Fishing

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Maybe this is fun, sitting in the sun,
With a book and parasol, as my Angler wishes,
While he dips his line in the ocean brine,
Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes.

'Tis romantic, yes, but I must confess
Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting.
But I dare not move -- Quiet, there, my love!
Says my Angler, for I think a monster fish is biting.
Oh, of course it's bliss, but how hot it is!
And the rock I'm sitting on grows harder every minute;
Still my fisher waits, trying various baits,
But the basket at his side I see has nothing in it.

Oh, it's just the way to pass a July day,
Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming,
But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way that insect crawls
Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming.
Any luck? I gently ask of the Angler at his task,
There's something pulling at my line, he says;
I've almost caught it.
But when with blistered face we our homeward steps retrace,
We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it.