But look! o'er the fall see the angler stand, Swinging his rod with skilful hand; The fly at the end of his gossamer line Swims through the sun like a summer moth, Till, dropt with a careful precision fine, It touches the pool beyond the froth. A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook Darts from his cover and seizes the hook. Swift spins the reel; with easy slip The line pays out, and the rod like a whip, Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim, Is bent to a bow o'er the brooklet's brim, Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings The spray from the flash of his finny wings; Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright, Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge, Till beached at last on the sandy marge, Where he dies with the hues of the morning light, While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright. The angler in his basket lays The constellation, and goes his ways.
