Little Rivers (Illustrated): A Book of Essays in Profitable Idleness

When tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
Are wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;
When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow
And leads the eyes toward sunset skies,
Beyond the hills where green trees grow;
Then weary is the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
I’m only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.