Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798). William Wordsworth

      The strong wind reach'd the ship: it roar'd

        And dropp'd down, like a stone!

      Beneath the lightning and the moon

        The dead men gave a groan.

      They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose,

        Ne spake, ne mov'd their eyes:

      It had been strange, even in a dream

        To have seen those dead men rise.

      The helmsman steerd, the ship mov'd on;

        Yet never a breeze up-blew;

      The Marineres all 'gan work the ropes,

        Where they were wont to do:

      They rais'd their limbs like lifeless tools —

        We were a ghastly crew.

      The body of my brother's son

        Stood by me knee to knee:

      The body and I pull'd at one rope,

        But he said nought to me —

      And I quak'd to think of my own voice

        How frightful it would be!

      The day-light dawn'd – they dropp'd their arms,

        And cluster'd round the mast:

      Sweet sounds rose slowly thro' their mouths

        And from their bodies pass'd.

      Around, around, flew each sweet sound,

        Then darted to the sun:

      Slowly the sounds came back again

        Now mix'd, now one by one.

      Sometimes a dropping from the sky

        I heard the Lavrock sing;

      Sometimes all little birds that are

      How they seem'd to fill the sea and air

        With their sweet jargoning,

      And now 'twas like all instruments,

        Now like a lonely flute;

      And now it is an angel's song

        That makes the heavens be mute.

      It ceas'd: yet still the sails made on

        A pleasant noise till noon,

      A noise like of a hidden brook

        In the leafy month of June,

      That to the sleeping woods all night

        Singeth a quiet tune.

      Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest!

        "Marinere! thou hast thy will:

      "For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make

        "My body and soul to be still."

      Never sadder tale was told

        To a man of woman born:

      Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest!

        Thou'lt rise to morrow morn.

      Never sadder tale was heard

        By a man of woman born:

      The Marineres all return'd to work

        As silent as beforne.

      The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes,

        But look at me they n'old:

      Thought I, I am as thin as air —

        They cannot me behold.

      Till noon we silently sail'd on

        Yet never a breeze did breathe:

      Slowly and smoothly went the ship

        Mov'd onward from beneath.

      Under the keel nine fathom deep

        From the land of mist and snow

      The spirit slid: and it was He

        That made the Ship to go.

      The sails at noon left off their tune

        And the Ship stood still also.

      The sun right up above the mast

        Had fix'd her to the ocean:

      But in a minute she 'gan stir

        With a short uneasy motion —

      Backwards and forwards half her length

        With a short uneasy motion.

      Then, like a pawing horse let go,

        She made a sudden bound:

      It flung the blood into my head,

        And I fell into a swound.

      How long in that same fit I lay,

        I have not to declare;

      But ere my living life return'd,

      I heard and in my soul discern'd

        Two voices in the air,

      "Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man?

        "By him who died on cross,

      "With his cruel bow he lay'd full low

        "The harmless Albatross.

      "The spirit who 'bideth by himself

        "In the land of mist and snow,

      "He lov'd the bird that lov'd the man

        "Who shot him with his bow."

      The other was a softer voice,

        As soft as honey-dew:

      Quoth he the man hath penance done,

        And penance more will do.