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Poem	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.
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