The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Coleridge Samuel Taylor

danced at night;

      The water, like a witch's oils,

      Burnt green, and blue and white.

      And some in dreams assured were

      Of the spirit that plagued us so:

      Nine fathom deep he had followed us

      From the land of mist and snow.

      And every tongue, through utter drought,

      Was withered at the root;

      We could not speak, no more than if

      We had been choked with soot.

      Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

      Had I from old and young!

      Instead of the cross, the Albatross

      About my neck was hung.

      PART THE THIRD

      There passed a weary time.  Each throat

      Was parched, and glazed each eye.

      A weary time! a weary time!

      How glazed each weary eye,

      When looking westward, I beheld

      A something in the sky.

      At first it seemed a little speck,

      And then it seemed a mist:

      It moved and moved, and took at last

      A certain shape, I wist.

      A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!

      And still it neared and neared:

      As if it dodged a water-sprite,

      It plunged and tacked and veered.

      With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

      We could not laugh nor wail;

      Through utter drought all dumb we stood!

      I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,

      And cried, A sail! a sail!

      With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

      Agape they heard me call:

      Gramercy! they for joy did grin,

      And all at once their breath drew in,

      As they were drinking all.

      See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!

      Hither to work us weal;

      Without a breeze, without a tide,

      She steadies with upright keel!

      The western wave was all a-flame

      The day was well nigh done!

      Almost upon the western wave

      Rested the broad bright Sun;

      When that strange shape drove suddenly

      Betwixt us and the Sun.

      And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,

      (Heaven's Mother send us grace!)

      As if through a dungeon-grate he peered,

      With broad and burning face.

      Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)

      How fast she nears and nears!

      Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,

      Like restless gossameres!

      Are those her ribs through which the Sun

      Did peer, as through a grate?