III.

I saw a something in the Sky No bigger than my fist; At first it seem’d a little speck And then it seem’d a mist: It mov’d and mov’d, and took at last A 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’d Ne could we laugh, ne wail: Then while thro’ drouth all dumb they stood I bit my arm and suck’d the blood And cry’d, A sail! a sail!

With throat unslack’d, with black lips bak’d Agape they hear’d 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 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 strait the Sun was fleck’d with bars (Heaven’s mother send us grace) As if thro’ a dungeon grate he peer’d 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 fleck’d The 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 rust Of mouldy damps and charnel crust They’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 came And 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 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 turn’d his face with a ghastly pang And curs’d me with his ee.

Four times fifty living men, With never a sigh or groan, With heavy thump, a lifeless lump They 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.