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It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three.
At length did cross an Albatross: Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name.
“God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look'st thou so?”—With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross.
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!
“I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, as is the ribbed sea-sand.
He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.
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