A Dream Of Sunshine
I'm
weary
of
this
weather
and
I
hanker
for
the
ways
Which
people
read
of
in
the
psalms
and
preachers
paraphrase--
The
grassy
fields,
the
leafy
woods,
the
banks
where
I
can
lie
And
listen
to
the
music
of
the
brook
that
flutters
by,
Or,
by
the
pond
out
yonder,
hear
the
redwing
blackbird's
call
Where
he
makes
believe
he
has
a
nest,
but
hasn't
one
at
all;
And
by
my
side
should
be
a
friend--a
trusty,
genial
friend,
With
plenteous
store
of
tales
galore
and
natural
leaf
to
lend;
Oh,
how
I
pine
and
hanker
for
the
gracious
boon
of
spring--
For
_then_
I'm
going
a-fishing
with
John
Lyle
King!
How
like
to
pigmies
will
appear
creation,
as
we
float
Upon
the
bosom
of
the
tide
in
a
three-by-thirteen
boat--
Forgotten
all
vexations
and
all
vanities
shall
be,
As
we
cast
our
cares
to
windward
and
our
anchor
to
the
lee;
Anon
the
minnow-bucket
will
emit
batrachian
sobs,
And
the
devil's
darning-needles
shall
come
wooing
of
our
bobs;
The
sun
shall
kiss
our
noses
and
the
breezes
toss
our
hair
(This
latter
metaphoric--we've
no
fimbriae
to
spare!);
And
I--transported
by
the
bliss--shan't
do
a
plaguey
thing
But
cut
the
bait
and
string
the
fish
for
John
Lyle
King!
Or,
if
I
angle,
it
will
be
for
bullheads
and
the
like,
While
he
shall
fish
for
gamey
bass,
for
pickerel,
and
for
pike;
I
really
do
not
care
a
rap
for
all
the
fish
that
swim--
But
it's
worth
the
wealth
of
Indies
just
to
be
along
with
him
In
grassy
fields,
in
leafy
woods,
beside
the
water-brooks,
And
hear
him
tell
of
things
he's
seen
or
read
of
in
his
books--
To
hear
the
sweet
philosophy
that
trickles
in
and
out
The
while
he
is
discoursing
of
the
things
we
talk
about;
A
fountain-head
refreshing--a
clear,
perennial
spring
Is
the
genial
conversation
of
John
Lyle
King!
Should
varying
winds
or
shifting
tides
redound
to
our
despite--
In
other
words,
should
we
return
all
bootless
home
at
night,
I'd
back
him
up
in
anything
he
had
a
mind
to
say
Of
mighty
bass
he'd
left
behind
or
lost
upon
the
way;
I'd
nod
assent
to
every
yarn
involving
piscine
game--
I'd
cross
my
heart
and
make
my
affidavit
to
the
same;
For
what
is
friendship
but
a
scheme
to
help
a
fellow
out--
And
what
a
paltry
fish
or
two
to
make
such
bones
about!
Nay,
Sentiment
a
mantle
of
sweet
charity
would
fling
O'er
perjuries
committed
for
John
Lyle
King.
At
night,
when
as
the
camp-fire
cast
a
ruddy,
genial
flame,
He'd
bring
his
tuneful
fiddle
out
and
play
upon
the
same;
No
diabolic
engine
this--no
instrument
of
sin--
No
relative
at
all
to
that
lewd
toy,
the
violin!
But
a
godly
hoosier
fiddle--a
quaint
archaic
thing
Full
of
all
the
proper
melodies
our
grandmas
used
to
sing;
With
"Bonnie
Doon,"
and
"Nellie
Gray,"
and
"Sitting
on
the
Stile,"
"The
Heart
Bowed
Down,"
the
"White
Cockade,"
and
"Charming
Annie
Lisle"
Our
hearts
would
echo
and
the
sombre
empyrean
ring
Beneath
the
wizard
sorcery
of
John
Lyle
King.
The
subsequent
proceedings
should
interest
me
no
more--
Wrapped
in
a
woolen
blanket
should
I
calmly
dream
and
snore;
The
finny
game
that
swims
by
day
is
my
supreme
delight--
And
_not_
the
scaly
game
that
flies
in
darkness
of
the
night!
Let
those
who
are
so
minded
pursue
this
latter
game
But
not
repine
if
they
should
lose
a
boodle
in
the
same;
For
an
example
to
you
all
one
paragon
should
serve--
He
towers
a
very
monument
to
valor
and
to
nerve;
No
bob-tail
flush,
no
nine-spot
high,
no
measly
pair
can
wring
A
groan
of
desperation
from
John
Lyle
King!
A
truce
to
badinage--I
hope
far
distant
is
the
day
When
from
these
scenes
terrestrial
our
friend
shall
pass
away!
We
like
to
hear
his
cheery
voice
uplifted
in
the
land,
To
see
his
calm,
benignant
face,
to
grasp
his
honest
hand;
We
like
him
for
his
learning,
his
sincerity,
his
truth,
His
gallantry
to
woman
and
his
kindliness
to
youth,
For
the
lenience
of
his
nature,
for
the
vigor
of
his
mind,
For
the
fulness
of
that
charity
he
bears
to
all
mankind--
That's
why
we
folks
who
know
him
best
so
reverently
cling
(And
that
is
why
I
pen
these
lines)
to
John
Lyle
King.
And
now
adieu,
a
fond
adieu
to
thee,
O
muse
of
rhyme--
I
do
remand
thee
to
the
shades
until
that
happier
time
When
fields
are
green,
and
posies
gay
are
budding
everywhere,
And
there's
a
smell
of
clover
bloom
upon
the
vernal
air;
When
by
the
pond
out
yonder
the
redwing
blackbird
calls,
And
distant
hills
are
wed
to
Spring
in
veils
of
water-falls;
When
from
his
aqueous
element
the
famished
pickerel
springs
Two
hundred
feet
into
the
air
for
butterflies
and
things--
_Then_
come
again,
O
gracious
muse,
and
teach
me
how
to
sing
The
glory
of
a
fishing
cruise
with
John
Lyle
King!
Eugene Field
Known for his lyrical and long-form verse, Percy Bysshe Shelley was a prominent English Romantic poet and was one of the most highly regarded and influential poets of the 19th century. Born on August 4, 1792—the year of the Terror in France—Percy Bysshe Shelley (the “Bysshe” from his grandfather, a peer of the realm) was the son of Timothy and Elizabeth Shelley. As the elder son among one brother, John, and four sisters, Elizabeth, Mary, Margaret, and Hellen, Percy stood in line not only to inherit his grandfather’s considerable estate but also to sit in Parliament one day. In his position as oldest male child, young Percy was beloved and admired by his sisters, his parents, and even the servants in his early reign as young lord of Field Place, the family home near Horsham, Sussex. Playful and imaginative, he devised games to play with his sisters and told ghost stories to an enrapt and willing-to-be-thrilled audience.