Orange and olive and glossed bay-tree,
And air of the evening out at sea,
And out at sea on the steep warm stone,
A little bare diver poising alone.

Flushed from the cool of Sicilian waves,
Flushed as the coral in clean sea-caves,
“I am!” he cries to his glorying heart,
And unto he knows not what: “T HOU art!”

He leaps, he shines, he sinks and is gone:
He will climb to the golden ledge anon.
Lovelier rite can none employ,
When the god of the isle is good to a boy.