Читать книгу Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798) - William Wordsworth, Coleridge Samuel Taylor - Страница 5

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.