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Much of that day is gone.
Half careless as I was
Of it -- since it was mine,
I chose that, rather than
Become cautious with it;
So, much of it's well gone --
Into my bones, maybe;
Certainly out of reach.
Sycamores and alders,
Grass turning a bright brown;
In the vertical light
The loud water ablaze,
Skimmed by green-backed swallows --
Hawk, black in the distance,
Calling down at it all --
Now from these I recall:
How in the unknown
River with nothing
Promised came the jolt
And quiver of the
First trout (thereafter
How readable were
The pools and riffl
es!) --
How then I kept on
Fishing past lunch time
Knowing the fatigue
This would mean; then ate
Somewhat hurriedly
At last with my boots
On a log to dry --