The Poetry Corner

The Bather.

By Bliss Carman (William)

I saw him go down to the water to bathe; He stood naked upon the bank. His breast was like a white cloud in the heaven, that catches the sun; It swelled with the sharp joy of the air. His legs rose with the spring and curve of young birches; The hollow of his back caught the blue shadows: With his head thrown up to the lips of the wind; And the curls of his forehead astir with the wind. I would that I were a man, they are so beautiful; Their bodies are like the bows of the Indians; They have the spring and the grace of bows of hickory. I know that women are beautiful, and that I am beautiful; But the beauty of a man is so lithe and alive and triumphant, Swift as the night of a swallow and sure as the pounce of the eagle.