III.
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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.
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