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O visions of salmon tremendous, Of trout of unusual weight, Of waters that wander as Ken does, Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the skies that bring never a "spate,"
But the flies that catch up in a thorn,
But the creel that is barren of freight,
Through the portals of horn!
O dreams of the Fates that attend us With prints in the earliest state, O bargains in books that they send us, Ye come through the Ivory Gate! But the tome that has never a mate, But the quarto that's tattered and torn, And bereft of a title and date, Through the portals of horn!
O dreams of the tongues that commend us, Of crowns for the laureate pate, Of a public to buy and befriend us, Ye come through the Ivory Gate! But the critics that slash us and slate, {2} But the people that hold us in scorn, But the sorrow, the scathe, and the hate, Through the portals of horn!
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