Fly-Fisherman in Wartime

SHALL I ever see it, the Queen’s River
With the Hathaway pitches riffling down?
Or is it lost to me now and forever,
Where the laurel whitened, the hackle was brown?

Perhaps my grandson may cast his fly
Where the straight bronze current spews at the turn.
Luck to his fishing! Light to his eye!
Strength to his wrist! And the wit to learn!

I was not wise, and my thought was simple,
Quick to be read by a hasty reader.
May he know more, where the eddies dimple,
Than I when I darted the dry-fly leader.

May he know, as I knew, the hard drops pounding
That hammered the black pool silver-white,
Pan’s shout through the summer squall resounding,
And the trout that struck in the thunderlight.