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About This Author

Hi there!

I'm a grandmother, a nursing educator, an avid knitter and an aspiring writer. I created this page for family and friends who expressed interest in reading my writing. It is mostly poetry with a few short stories sprinkled here and there .

The poem on this page is one my Mom favored. The collectible trinket is from a needlework picture of Longfellow's home she completed. Mom loved poetry and was an avid reader. She and my brother,Rasputin , inspire me still.

I have a published form modification called the Rondel Grand Modified; it is located here:

Drop me a note by clicking on the "Contact Me" link above and let me know you stopped to visit.

Happy reading and write on!

Poetic Tides Through Time
#906733 added March 31, 2017 at 8:28pm
Restrictions: None
The Angler

O the gallant fisher's life,
   It is the best of any!
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
   And 'tis beloved by many;
         Other joys
         Are but toys;
         Only this
         Lawful is;
         For our skill
         Breeds no ill,
   But content and pleasure.

In a morning up we rise,
  Ere Aurora's peeping;
Drink a cup to wash our eyes,
  Leave the sluggard sleeping;
         Then we go
         To and for,
         With our knacks
         At our backs,
         To such streams
         As the Thames,
  If we have the leisure.

When we please to walk abroad
  For our recreation,
In the fields is our abode,
  Full of delectation,
         Where, in a brook,
         With a hook-
         Or a lake,-
         Fish we take;
         There we sit,
         For a bit,
  Till we fish entangle.

We have gentles in a horn,
  We have paste and worms too;
We can watch both night and morn,
  Suffer rain and storms too;
         None do here
         Use to swear:
         Oaths do fray
         Fish away;
         We sit still,
         Watch our quill:
  Fishers must not wrangle.

If the sun's excessive heat
  Make our bodies swelter,
To an osier hedge we get,
  For a friendly shelter;
         Where, in a dike,
         Perch or pike,
         Roach or dace,
         We do chase,
         Bleak or gudgeon,
         Without grudging;
  We are still contented.

Or we sometimes pass an hour
  Under a green willow,
That defends us from a shower,
  Making earth our pillow;
         Where we may
         Think and pray,
         Before death
         Stops our breath;
         Other joys
         Are but toys,
  And to be lamented.

         John Chalkhill[fl. 1648], [c.1595-1642]

From: The Home Book of Verse by Burton Egbert Stevenson, 1917, pg. 2917


         This English poet left a bit of mystery behind. Much of his work was published posthumously by a relative, Izzak Walton. Although it is only recently that the family connection between the two was discovered and verifiable. Many of his original poems were attributed to Walton. Little is known about the poet Chalkhill other than his birthplace and genealogical connections. He was educated at Trinity College in Cambridge.

         This poem appeared in The Compleat Angler published by Izzak Walton after Chalkhill's death. I thought the sentiments expressed about fishing hold true today and the form and format are unique and interesting. For this poem, it all works. There is a quaintness to this that is endearing and timeless in its own way.

         Two modern versions are offered to compare and contrast. Both are by authors unknown; both are angler's prayers.

Fisherman's Prayer

May the Good Lord
help me see the day
When I catch the one
that got away!

Fisherman's Prayer

I pray that I may live to fish
Until my dying day.
And when it comes to my last cast,
I then most humbly pray:
When in the Lord's great landing net
And peacefully asleep
That in His mercy I be judged
Big enough to keep.

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  Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.~~Robert Frost

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