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.