名人诗歌|Fishing on the Susquehanna in July

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna

or on any river for that matter

to be perfectly^{1 honest.}

Not in July or any month

have I had the pleasureif it is a pleasure

of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found

in a quiet room like this one

a painting of a woman on the wall，

a bowl of tangerines on the table

trying to manufacture the sensation

of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt

that others have been fishing

on the Susquehanna，

rowing upstream in a wooden boat，

sliding the oars^{2 under the water}

then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to

fishing on the Susquehanna

was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia

when I balanced a little egg of time

in front of a painting

in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky，

dense^{3 trees along the banks，}

and a fellow with a red bandanna⁴

sitting in a small， green

flat-bottom boat

holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely

ever to do， I remember

saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on

to other American scenes

of haystacks， water whitening over rocks，

even one of a brown hare

who seemed so wired with alertness

I imagined him springing right out of the frame.