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 twine 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 the fisher waits, trying various baits,
But the baskets at his side, I see, have nothing in them.

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 baskets just as empty as we brought them.