miércoles, 7 de agosto de 2013

Poetry: Samuel Taylor Coleridge - The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner (in seven parts) - Part 3 - Links





PART THE THIRD.

     There passed a weary time.  Each throat
     Was parched, and glazed each eye.
     A weary time! a weary time!
     How glazed each weary eye,
     When looking westward, I beheld
     A something in the sky.

     At first it seemed a little speck,
     And then it seemed a mist:
     It moved and moved, and took at last
     A certain shape, I wist.

     A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
     And still it neared and neared:
     As if it dodged a water-sprite,
     It plunged and tacked and veered.

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     We could not laugh nor wail;
     Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
     I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
     And cried, A sail! a sail!

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     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 cried) she tacks no more!
     Hither to work us weal;
     Without a breeze, without a tide,
     She steadies 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 straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
     (Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
     As if through a dungeon-grate he peered,
     With broad and burning face.

     Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
     How fast she nears and nears!
     Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
     Like restless gossameres!

     Are those her ribs through which the Sun
     Did peer, as through a grate?
     And is that Woman all her crew?
     Is that a DEATH? and are there two?
     Is DEATH that woman's mate?

     Her lips were red, her looks were free,
     Her locks were yellow as gold:
     Her skin was as white as leprosy,
     The Night-Mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
     Who thicks man's blood with cold.

     The naked hulk alongside came,
     And the twain were casting dice;
     "The game is done!  I've won!  I've won!"
     Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

     The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
     At one stride comes the dark;
     With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea.
     Off shot the spectre-bark.

     We listened and looked sideways up!
     Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
     My life-blood seemed to sip!

     The stars were dim, and thick the night,
     The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
     From the sails the dew did drip—
     Till clombe above the eastern bar
     The horned Moon, with one bright star
     Within the nether tip.

     One after one, by the star-dogged Moon
     Too quick for groan or sigh,
     Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
     And cursed me with his eye.

     Four times fifty living men,
     (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
     With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
     They dropped down one by one.

     The souls did from their bodies fly,—
     They fled to bliss or woe!
     And every soul, it passed me by,
     Like the whizz of my CROSS-BOW!



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Poetry: Samuel Taylor Coleridge - The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner (in seven parts) - Part 3 - Links 
 



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