HENRY THOREAU
| His rounded back, all weather-stained, | |
| Has caught the air of wave-worn rocks, | |
| And sun and wind have bleached and tanned | |
| To one dun hue, hat, face, and locks. | |
| And Nature's calm so settled there | |
| The fishes never know their danger | |
| And playful take his careless bait — | |
| Bait they would ne'er accept from stranger. | |
| The blue eyes only are shrewd and living, | |
| But of soft reflections and fair things seen | |
| To you and me no hint they are giving — | |
| Of Sunsets' splendor, or meadows green, | |
| Never they prate of the cardinal's flame, | |
| The lilies' freshness, and sunrise flush, | |
| The solemn night, or the morning star, | |
| The violets white and the wild rose flush. | |
| Is it all a picture? Or does he ponder | |
| The year's fair pageant he knows so well? | |
| Or had it reached his heart, I wonder? | |
| He and the rushes will never tell.” |
For these men Thoreau felt an especial attraction and, himself a good fisher, but in no cockney fashion, and able to startle them with secrets of their own craft, could win others from them.1 From the most ancient of these it appears that he got that description of Walden in the last
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