Swimming
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 lip 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 seaweed, 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.
George Gordon, Lord Byron.
From “The Two Foscari.”