mpty creel,
A yard of gut, a split bamboo,
Beginner's luck and a fisherman's zeal.

Over the hills at the rise of day,
Through a sea of mist when the world is grey
I hie me down to the river's bend,
Where the shadows gloom and the ripples play.

Then all the length of an afternoon,
The light reel sings to a thrilling tune,
Till the basket sags with the speckled trout,
And I wander home by an April moon.

The Berry Pickers

When summer winds like scented waves bear fluffy flakes
of cruising seeds,
Above the stems of tawny grass and pale white wreaths of flowered weeds,
And berries splash their scarlet stains across the dipping hills of sun,
Their laughter lifts like silver bells and tinkling echoes sweetly run.

Their faces far below the crests of rippling gold and shadowed green,
They hear the dreams of drowsy bees and watch those buccaneers unseen
Cling yellow to the clover masts and trailing ropes of wild blue pea,
And breathe the brine of daisy froth that drifts
between the walls of sea.

Their fingers pluck the glowing fruit, their lips and cheeks
are smeared and dyed;
Their snowy bonnets brush the grass like lifting top-sails on a tide;
And when their little pails brim red and rosy hands will hold no more,
They steer long shadows down the waves that float
their tired feet to shore.

The Wood Trail

Down between the branches drops a low, soft wind.
Where the narrow trail begins there start I.
Yellow sun and shadow are spinning gold behind,
Long brakes are clutching as my knees brush by.

Hidden glades are pink with the twin linnaea,
Sweet with scented fronds and the warm, wet fern;
Flute the far-off rain-birds sad and clear,
Flash the pigeon blossoms at each sharp turn.

Pungent breathe the balsams by the stream's low banks;
Rotting wood and violets lie side by side;
Glows the scarlet fungus through the alder ranks,
Burning like a light on a still, green tide.

Hilltops bid me linger where the winds run cool;
Hollows hold my feet in the deep, black loam,
But marking purple shadows in the purring pool,
I lift my silent feet on the long trail home.

The Fruit-Rancher

He sees the rosy apples cling like flowers to the bough;
He plucks the purple plums and spills the cherries on the grass;
He wanted peace and silence,--God gives him plenty n