Fishing for Poetry

It's the The Fourth Annual Bloggers' (Silent) Poetry Reading, thanks to our hostess Reya. I'm a little unclear on whether this is in honor of Brigid the saint or Brigid the goddess of fire and poetry, or both, or just because it's about time for a good poem, but I've got my black turtleneck, my beret, and my demitasse of espresso.

Late winter means John Donne for me, and on this snowy winter afternoon, his piscatoral verse "The Bait" reminds me that they'll be stocking trout very soon. For more on the subject of fishing (and beautiful women), check out Sherry Chandler's wonderful photographs of her mother's fishing adventures.

The Bait by John Donne
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.

There will the river whisp'ring run
Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun ;
And there th' enamour'd fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,
By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest ;
Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes.

For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait :
That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,
Alas ! is wiser far than I.