Hunting and fishing poetry. Post your favorites.

[fourtycal]

The hunters horn sounds early for some, later for others. For some unfortunates, prisoned by city sidewalks and sentenced to a cement jungle more horrifying than anything found in Tanganyika, the horn of the hunter never sounds at all. But deep in the guts of most men is buried the involuntary response to the hunters horn, a prickle of the nape hairs, and acceleration of the pulse, an atavistic memory of his father's, who killed first with stone, and then with the club, and then with the spear, and then with the bow, and then with the gun, and finally with formulas. How meek the man is of no importance; somewhere in the pigeon chest of the clerk is still the vestigial remnant of the hunters heart; somewhere in his nostrils the half forgotten smell of blood. Robert Ruark.

[fourtycal]

No one, but he who has partaken thereof, can understand the keen delight of hunting in lonely lands. For him is the joy of the horse well ridden and the rifle well held; for him the long days of toil and hardship, resolutely endured, and crowned at the end with triumph. In after years there shall come forever to his mind the memory of endless prairies shimmering in the bright sun, of vast snow-clad wastes lying desolate under gray skies; of the melancholy marshes; of the rush of mighty rivers; of the breath of evergreen forest in summer; of the crooning of ice-armored pines at the touch of the winds of winter; of cataracts roaring between hoary mountain masses; of all the innumerable sights and sounds of the wilderness; of its immensity and mystery; and of the silences that brood in its still depths.
- Theodore Roosevelt, The Wilderness Hunter