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: “Thou art!”
He leaps, he shines, he sinks, he is gone: