This Inky Pool
by LEONARD BACON
THIS inky pool is beautiful no doubt,
If one considers it in proper terms
As the realm of larvae and segmented worms,
Where greasy marsh-gas bubbles nauseate trout.
They turn, like soldiers at the rightabout,
From the dark mudhole, which their fear confirms,
Shunning black slime that harbors embryo germs,
Whence one day wings fantastic will flash out,
If one considers it in proper terms
As the realm of larvae and segmented worms,
Where greasy marsh-gas bubbles nauseate trout.
They turn, like soldiers at the rightabout,
From the dark mudhole, which their fear confirms,
Shunning black slime that harbors embryo germs,
Whence one day wings fantastic will flash out,
Diaphanous, above long pitch and eddy,
Where the azalea whitens by the stream,
And May flies seek to live their three-day dream,
Dipping or hovering. Underneath, like fate,
Where water inexorable as time runs steady,
In ambush, iris-belted squaretail wait.
Where the azalea whitens by the stream,
And May flies seek to live their three-day dream,
Dipping or hovering. Underneath, like fate,
Where water inexorable as time runs steady,
In ambush, iris-belted squaretail wait.