Lord Byron (1788–1824)

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.