Transmigration

Before the window of a shop With fishing tackle on display, I stop To view the rods, hooks, lines and reels; The painted lures ; the canvas creels ; And landing net As yet unwet; To me each shining article appeals.

But, as I gaze, these disappear. Within the window, showing clear, I see some pines — a rocky shore — A little baylet I adore — A fishing boat E'en now afloat, While wavelets rock it aft and fore!

Why should I care though wind be chill? My heart within, is warm with thrill. I see no more the slush and snow Wherein I stand : but mem'ry's glow Brings summer day With me away Beside the lake where big ones grow.