Poet: Zitella Cocke
Three little folks by the meadow brook,
With a line of twine and a bent-pin hook,
And an eager, earnest, serious look,
As if they were conning a lesson book,
Sat resolutely fishing!
"I wish," said Tom, "for a pot of gold
With every minute that has been told
Since the day the earth was young or old,
I'd have more money than I could hold.
See, what I get for fishing! "
"I wish," said Ned, "that the ships at sea,
And all that is in them, belonged to me,
And all that have been, or ever will be:
My wish is the best, don't you agree,
And worth a day of fishing! "
"I wish," said Moll, with a toss of her head,
And a pout of her lips that were cherry red,
"You'd get your wishes, just as you said,
And give them to me, — now, Tom and Ned,
I've got the most by wishing! "
Poet: Saxe
Of all amusements for the mind,
From logic down to fishing,
There isn't one that you can find
So very cheap as "wishing."
A very choice diversion, too.
If we but rightly use it,
And not, as we are apt to do,
Pervert it and abuse it.
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
To gentle ways I am inclined;
I have no wish to kill.
To creatures dumb I would be kind;
I like them all, but still
Right now I think I'd like to be
Beside some rippling brook,
And grab a worm I'd brought with me
And slip him on a hook.
I'd like to put my hand once more
Into a rusty can
And turn those squirmy creatures o'er
Like nuggets in a pan;
And for a big one, once again.
With eager eyes I'd look.
As did a boy I knew, and then
Impale it on a hook.
I've had my share of fishing joy,
I've fished with patent bait.
With chub and minnow, but the boy
Is lord of sport's estate
And no such pleasure comes to man
So rare as when he took
A worm from a tomato can
And slipped it on a hook.
I'd like to gaze with glowing eyes
Upon that precious bait.
To view each fat worm as a prize
To be accounted great.
And though I've passed from boyhood's term,
And opened age's book,
I still would like to put a worm
That wriggled on a hook.
Fishing Quotes
Poet: Paul Laurence Dunbar
I’ve always been a faithful man
An’ tried to live for duty,
But the stringent mode of life
Has somewhat lost its beauty.
The story of the generous bread
He sent upon the waters,
Which after many days returns
To trusting sons and daughters,
Had oft impressed me, so I want
My soul influenced by it,
And bought a loaf of bread and sought
A stream where I could try it.
I cast my bread upon the waves
And fancied then to await it;
It had not floated far away
When a fish came up and ate it.
And if I want both fish and bread,
And surely both I’m wanting,
About the only way I see
Is for me to go fishing.
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
There's nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul
Like a day on a stream.
Back on the banks of the old fishing hole
Where a fellow can dream.
There's nothing so good for a man as to flee
From the city and lie
Full length in the shade of a whispering tree
And gaze at the sky.
Out there where the strife and the greed are forgot
And the struggle for pelf,
A man can get rid of each taint and each spot
And clean up himself;
He can be what he wanted to be when a boy.
If only in dreams;
And revel once more in the depths of a joy
That's as real as it seems.
The things that he hates never follow him there -
The jar of the street,
The rivalries petty, the struggling unfair -
For the open is sweet.
In purity's realm he can rest and be clean.
Be he humble or great,
And as peaceful his soul may become as the scene
That his eyes contemplate.
It is good for the world that men hunger to go
To the banks of a stream,
And weary of sham and of pomp and of show
They have somewhere to dream.
For this life would be dreary and sordid and base
Did they not now and then
Seek refreshment and calm in God's wide, open space
And come back to be men.
