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So past a weary time; each throat

Was parch’d, and glaz'd each eye, When, looking westward, I beheld

A something in the sky.

At first it seem'd a little speck

And then it seem'd a mist:

It moy'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, as if it dodg'd a water-sprite,

It plung’d and tack'd and veerd.

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With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd
We could nor laugh nor wail

il ;
Thro' utter drouth all dumb we stood
Till I bit my arm and suck'd the blood,

And cry'd, A sail ! a sail !

With throat unslaçkid, with black lips bak'd

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 cry'd) she tacks no more !

Hither to work us weal Without a breeze, without a tide

She steddies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a flame,

The day was well nigh done! Almost


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 those her Ribs, thro' which the Sun

Did peer, as thro' a grate ?
And are those two all, all her crew,

That Woman, and her Mate?

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 were patch'd with purple and green.

Her lips were red, her looks were free,

Her locks were yellow as gold :
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
And she was far liker Death than he ;

Her flesh made 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


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 between the tips.

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