I like to look at fishermen
 And oftentimes I wish
One would be lucky now and then
 And catch a little fish.
I watch them statuesquely stand,
 And at the water look;
But if they pull their float to land
 It's just to bait a hook.
 
I ponder the psychology
 That roots them in their place;
And wonder at the calm I see
 In ever angler's face.
There is such patience in their eyes,
 Beside the river's brink;
And waiting for a bite or rise
 I do not think they think.

Or else they are just gentle men,
 Who love--they know not why,
Greeen grace of trees or water when
 It wimples to the sky . . .
Sweet simple souls! As vain I watch
 My heart to you is kind:
Most precious prize of all you catch,
 --Just Peace of Mind.