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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536553" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. April</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536553" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">TROUT--FISHING</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536553" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">This morning, through my window, half awake,<br>I felt the south wind blow; and presently,<br>With a tumultuous thrill and then a shake,<br>The nightingale broke forth in melody.<br>I rose in haste, and looked at the grey sky,<br>And read an omen. From its corner next<br>A book I drew, blest book, where fly on fly<br>Are all the letters of its well--thumbed text.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536553" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I chose my cast, a march--brown and a dun,<br>And ran down to the river, chasing hope.<br>At the first throw a mighty trout was on,<br>A very Samson, fit to burst a rope,<br>Yet tamed by one sad hank of yielding hair<br>And Fate, the fisherman of King and Pope.<br>Upon the grass he lies, and gasps the air,<br>Four silver pounds, sublimely fat and fair.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a></strong></div>