The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere, in Seven Parts III

I saw a something in the SkyNo bigger than my fist;At first it seem’d a little speckAnd then it seem’d a mist:It mov’d and mov’d, and took at lastA certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!And still it ner’d and ner’d;And, an it dodg’d a water-sprite,It plung’d and tack’d and veer’d.

With throat unslack’d, with black lips bak’dNe could we laugh, ne wail:Then while thro’ drouth all dumb they stoodI bit my arm and suck’d the bloodAnd cry’d, A sail! a sail!

With throat unslack’d, with black lips bak’dAgape they hear’d me call:Gramercy! they for joy did grinAnd all at once their breath drew inAs they were drinking all.

She doth not tack from side to side--Hither to work us wealWithouten wind, withouten tideShe steddies with upright keel.

The western wave was all a flame,The day was well nigh done!Almost upon the western waveRested the broad bright Sun;When that strange shape drove suddenlyBetwixt us and the Sun.

And strait the Sun was fleck’d with bars(Heaven’s mother send us grace)As if thro’ a dungeon grate he peer’dWith broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)How fast she neres and neres!Are those her Sails that glance in the SunLike restless gossameres?

Are these her naked ribs, which fleck’dThe sun that did behind them peer?And are these two all, all the crew,That woman and her fleshless Pheere?

His bones were black with many a crack,All black and bare, I ween;Jet-black and bare, save where with rustOf mouldy damps and charnel crustThey’re patch’d with purple and green.

Her lips are red, her looks are free,Her locks are yellow as gold:Her skin is as white as leprosy,And she is far liker Death than he;Her flesh makes the still air cold.

The naked Hulk alongside cameAnd the Twain were playing dice;“The Game is done! I’ve won, I’ve won!”Quoth she, and whistled thrice.

A gust of wind sterte up behindAnd whistled thro’ his bones;Thro’ the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouthHalf-whistles and half-groans.

With never a whisper in the SeaOff darts the Spectre-ship;While clombe above the Eastern barThe horned Moon, with one bright StarAlmost atween the tips.

One after one by the horned Moon(Listen, O Stranger! to me)Each turn’d his face with a ghastly pangAnd curs’d me with his ee.

Four times fifty living men,With never a sigh or groan,With heavy thump, a lifeless lumpThey dropp’d down one by one.

Their souls did from their bodies fly,--They fled to bliss or woe;And every soul it pass’d me by,Like the whiz of my Cross-bow.