Down in the deep
Dark holes I keep,
And there in the noontide I float and sleep,
By the hemlock log,
And the springing bog,
And the arching alders, I lie incog.
The angler's fly
Comes dancing by,
But never a moment it cheats my eye;
For the hermit trout
Is not such a lout
As to be by a wading boy pulled out.
King of the brook,
No fisher's hook
Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook;
But here I lie,
And laugh as they try;
Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!
But when the streams,
With moonlight beams,
Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams,
Then, then look out
For the hermit trout;
For he springs and dimples the shallows about,
While the tired angler dreams.