From “The Two Foscari” HOW many a time have I Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring, The wave all roughened; with a swimmer’s stroke Flinging the billows back from my drenched hair, And laughing from my lips the audacious brine, Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o’er The waves as they arose, and prouder still The loftier they uplifted me; and oft, In wantonness of spirit, plunging down Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen By those above, till they waxed fearful; then Returning with my grasp full of such tokens As showed that I had searched the deep; exulting, With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep The long-suspended breath, again I spurned The foam which broke around me, and pursued My track like a sea-bird.—I was a boy then.
Swimming
More from Poet
-
From “Childe Harold,” Canto III. THERE sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit antithetically mixed One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixed, Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, Thy throne had still been thine, or...
-
Eternal spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart,— The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,— To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloom,— Their country conquers with their...
-
[June 15, 1815] From “Childe Harold,” Canto III. THERE was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its...
-
From “Hebrew Melodies” THE ASSYRIAN came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with...
-
From “Don Juan,” Canto III. THE ISLES of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet; But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero’s...