In ledge and rock-cranny he peered and poked,
Till he caught the glint of that golden cup
Hung on a rock, as though it had grown
In the depth which the sea-snake calls her own.
* * * * *
But see! What shines from the dark flood there
As a swan's soft plumage white?
A thin, wan face, scant, wave-washed hair,
And arms that move with a summer's might.
It is he, and lo! in his left hand high