not surprise, When you know that his bedtime had been at sunrise, And that gay Narraganset, the world renowned "Pier," Was the scene. Through the lace curtained window the clear Yellow rays of the hot August sun touched his bed And proclaimed it was mid-day. He rose, and his head Seemed as large and as light as an air filled balloon While his limbs were like lead. 

One late summer day

 In the glare of the noon, The follies of night show their makeup, and seem Like hideous monsters evoked by some dream. 

In the glare of the noon,

 The sea called to Roger: "Come, lie on my breast And forget the dull world. My unrest shall give rest To your turbulent feelings; the dregs of the wine On your lips shall be lost in the salt touch of mine. Come away, come away. Ah! the jubilant mirth Of the sea is not known by the stupid old earth." 

 The beach swarmed with bathers—to be more exact, Swarmed with people in costumes of bathers. In fact, Many beautiful women bathed but in the light Of men's eyes; and their costumes were made for the sight, Not the sea. From the sea's lusty outreaching arms They escaped with shrill shrieks, while the men viewed their charms And made mental notes of them. Yet, at this hour, The waves, too, were swelling sea meadows, a-flower With faces of swimmers. All dressed for his bath, Roger paused in confusion, because in his path Surged a crowd of the curious; all eyes were bent On the form of a woman who leisurely went From her bathing house down to the beach.  "There she goes," Roger heard a dame cry, as she stepped on his toes With her whole ample weight.  "What, the one with red hair? Why, she isn't as pretty as Maude, I declare." A man passing by with his comrade, cried: "Ned, Look! there is La Travers, the one with the red Braid of hair to her knees. She's a mystery here, And at present the topic of talk at the Pier." Roger followed their glances in time to behold For a second a head crowned with braids of bright gold, And a form like a Venus, all costumed in white. Then she plunged through a billow and vanished from sight. 

 It was half an hour afterward, possibly more, As Roger swam farther and farther from shore, With new life in his limbs and new force in his brain, That he heard, just behind him, a sharp cry of pain. Ten strokes in the rear on the crest of a wave Shone a woman's white face.  "Keep your courage; be brave; I am coming," he shouted.  "Turn over and float." His strong shoulder plunged like the prow of a boat Through the billows. Six overhand 

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