He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond.
He seemed uncertain what more he should do.
He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond,
Tossed it and caught it; every time he threw,
He caught it nearer to the point. At last
The fish was near enough to touch. He paused.
Eunice knew well the craft- “What's got the thing!”
She cried. “What can have caused-
Where is his net? The moment will be past.
The fish will wriggle free.” She stopped aghast.
He turned and bowed. One arm was in a sling.
Pickthorn Manor: 09
Amy Lowell
(1)
Poem topics: time, moment, touch, point, fish, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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