第5章 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-3
III.
I saw a something in the Sky
No bigger than my ?st;
At ?rst it seemd a little speck
And then it seemd a mist:
It movd and movd, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it nerd and nerd;
And, an it dodgd a water-sprite,
It plungd and tackd and veerd.
With throat unslackd, with black lips bakd
Ne could we laugh, ne wail:
Then while thro drouth all dumb they stood
I bit my arm and suckd the blood
And cryd, A sail! a sail!
With throat unslackd, with black lips bakd
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin
And all at once their breath drew in
As they were drinking all.
She doth not tack from side to side--
Hither to work us weal
Withouten wind, withouten tide
She steddies with upright keel.
The western wave was all a ?ame,
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 strait the Sun was ?eckd with bars
(Heavens mother send us grace)
As if thro a dungeon grate he peerd
With 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 Sun
Like restless gossameres?
Are these _her_ naked ribs, which ?eckd
The sun that did behind them peer?
And are these two all, all the crew,
That woman and her ?eshless Pheere?
_His_ bones were black with many a crack,
All black and bare, I ween;
Jet-black and bare, save where with rust
Of mouldy damps and charnel crust
Theyre patchd 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 ?esh makes the still air cold.
The naked Hulk alongside came
And the Twain were playing dice;
"The Game is done! Ive won, Ive won!"
Quoth she, and whistled thrice.
A gust of wind sterte up behind
And whistled thro his bones;
Thro the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth
Half-whistles and half-groans.
With never a whisper in the Sea
Off darts the Spectre-ship;
While clombe above the Eastern bar
The horned Moon, with one bright Star
Almost atween the tips.
One after one by the horned Moon
(Listen, O Stranger! to me)
Each turnd his face with a ghastly pang
And cursd me with his ee.
Four times ?fty living men,
With never a sigh or groan,
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump
They droppd down one by one.
Their souls did from their bodies ?y,--
They ?ed to bliss or woe;
And every soul it passd me by,
Like the whiz of my Cross-bow.