Orisons

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: He will climb to the golden ledge anon. Perfecter rite can none employ, When the god of the isle is good to a boy.