Short Poems About Fishing for Anglers, Kids, and Families

I am sitting to-day at the desk alone,
And the figures are hard to tame;
I’d like to shift to a mossy stone
Nor bother with pelf and fame.
I know a pool where the waters cool
Rest under the brawling falls,
And the song and gleam of that mountain stream —
Oh, it calls, and calls, and calls!

There are hooks and lines in a wayside store
Where the grangers buy their plug,
And the loggers swap their river-lore
For a jag they can hardly lug.
I wonder how long that tackle will lie
As useless as any dumb fool
Unless I happen along to buy,
And sneak for that mountain pool.

Oh, bother the flies, I guess I’ve enough,
I know where the worms are thick
By Billy’s old barn — Oh, they are the stuff —
You can dig a quart with a stick.
The reel is all right and the line is tight,
And if they should happen to fail
There’s little birch rods that are fit for gods
When they follow the trout-brook trail.

I jing! the demon has rung me up —
The “central” up in the woods —
Waders, and creel, and a pocket-cup!
I’m after the only goods.
Wire for Hank and the old buckboard —
The secret, I guess, is out —
Don’t bother me now — you’ll get in a row —
I’m catching the train for trout.

Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat’ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!

One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud! — Death eddies near —
Not here the appointed End, not here!

But somewhere, beyond Space and Time.
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.

Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.

O the gallant fisher’s life,
It is the best of any!
‘Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And ’tis beloved by many;
Other joys
Are but toys;
Only this
Lawful is;
For our skill
Breeds no ill,
But content and pleasure.

In a morning, up we rise,
Ere Aurora’s peeping;
Drink a cup to wash our eyes,
Leave the sluggard sleeping;
Then we go
To and fro,
With our knacks
At our backs,
To such streams
As the Thames,
If we have the leisure.

When we please to walk abroad
For our recreation,
In the fields is our abode,
Full of delectation,
Where, in a brook,
With a hook,—
Or a lake,—
Fish we take;
There we sit,
For a bit,
Till we fish entangle.

We have gentles in a horn,
We have paste and worms too;
We can watch both night and morn,
Suffer rain and storms too;
None do here
Use to swear:
Oaths do fray
Fish away;
We sit still,
Watch our quill:
Fishers must not wrangle.

If the sun’s excessive heat
Make our bodies swelter,
To an osier hedge we get,
For a friendly shelter,
Where, in a dike,
Perch or pike,
Roach or dace,
We do chase,
Bleak or gudgeon,
Without grudging;
We are still contented.

Or we sometimes pass an hour
Under a green willow,
That defends us from a shower,
Making earth our pillow;
Where we may
Think and pray,
Before death
Stops our breath;
Other joys
Are but toys,
And to be lamented.

My old boat rests on the shore,
By the river’s sedgy brink,
Where the meadow grass bends o’er,
And the cattle come to drink;
‘Tis a rusty, batter’d boat,
Boat without master sail,
And it never again may float,
In dead calm or in gale;
For its timbers and ribs are rent,
Shiver’d and crack’d and bent,
And the paint has faded away,
From its sides this many a-day;
Sides gaping in every seam,
Wide open to the stream.

And yet a brave boat wast thou!
When I launch’d you long ago,
When thy shapely, sharpen’d prow,
Cleaved the waters like a plow;
Gay then each painted side,
With umber and green and white,
My triumph and my pride,
My glory, my heart’s delight!
Was ever a joy in the past,
Like mine when first arose,
The flag at the head of the mast,
A pennon of purple and rose;
When first thy snowy sail,
I gave to the riotous breeze,
And steer’d from this river-vale,
Straight out to the open seas!

Ah, many the splendid school
Of fish, in these river-deeps,
That haunt each darksome pool,
Or flash where the current sweeps;
Have I follow’d where e’er they float,
And gather’d into this boat;
And along the salty tides
Of the sea, I have track’d their way,
Till their glittering, scaly sides,
In my little shallop lay.