 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
180
A RISE.
Come, then, coy Zephyr, waft my feather'd baitOver this rippling shallow's tiny wave
To yonder pool, whose calmer eddies lave
Some Triton's ambush,—where he lies in wait
To catch my skipping fly; there drop it lightly:
A rise,—by Glaucus! but he miss'd the hook—
Another!—safe; the monarch of the brook,
With broadside like a salmon's, gleaming brightly!
Off let him race, and waste his prowess there;
The dread of Damocles, a single hair
Will tax my skill to take this fine old trout:
So—lead him gently: quick—the net, the net!
Now gladly lift the glittering beauty out,
Hued like a dolphin, sweet as violet.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |