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
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