Classic Poem

O brother of the rod and line,
A grief have I like unto thine,
When thou, alone, the two-foot trout
From the clear pool canst not pull out!

Not much at Walton's art am I,
Nor skilled to fling the twitching fly,
Yet, I repeat, there is a grief
Like thine, and galling past belief:

'Tis when, companions gone, I light
Another pipe to wile the night,
And feel that not a man may know
What perfect double-rings I blow!