WHAT trout shall coax the rod of yore
In Itchen stream to dip?
What lover of her banks restore
That sweet Socratic lip?
Old fishing and wishing
Are over many a year.
O hush thee, O hush thee! heart innocent and dear.
Again the foamy shallows fill,
The quiet clouds amass,
And soft as bees by Catherine Hill
At dawn the anglers pass,
And follow the hollow,
In boughs to disappear.
O hush thee, O hush thee! heart innocent and dear.
Nay, rise not now, nor with them take
One silver-freckled fool!
Thy sons to-day bring each an ache
For ancient arts to cool.
But, father, lie rather
Unhurt and idle near;
O hush thee, O hush thee! heart innocent and dear.
While thought of thee to men is yet
A sylvan playfellow,
Ne’er by thy marble they forget
In pious cheer to go.
As air falls, the prayer falls
O’er kingly Winchester:
O hush thee, O hush thee! heart innocent and dear.