![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1tWEfIBwDw465Ml2h6ejX0XtYJWu4ZbwuDEL6WqKFpHAxBPEUCIeQ0Yr-9a4T8z09lKZs5zYIdqHietb-jpLn0Qv-AEcG2AtVuiXrn-PIZOrZiNZuMhAtPKPU2RVYEdqdGczruGHKA0J/s200/lakefishing.jpg)
Across the twilight lake, the chill,
Which manages almost to kill
Desire, begins to numb. Then all
Is stillness, lest a word disturb
The frigid stupor of the fish.
Though waiting mute, I dare not wish
A closer son-to-father word.
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