text: module.exports = `"I have a kind of weird story related to death. Something my father told me. He said it was an actual experience he had when he was in his early twenties. Just the age I am now. I’ve heard the story so many times I can remember every detail. It’s a really strange story—it’s hard even now for me to believe it actually happened— but my father isn’t the type to lie about something like that. Or the type who would concoct such a story. I’m sure you know this, but when you make up a story the details change each time you retell it. You tend to embellish things, and forget what you said before. ... But my father’s story, from start to finish, was always exactly the same, each time he told it. So I think it must be something he actually experienced. I’m his son, and I know him really well, so the only thing I can do is believe what he said. But you don’t know my father, Tsukuru, so feel free to believe it or not. Just understand that this is what he told me. You can take it as folklore, or a tale of the supernatural, I don’t mind. It’s a long story, and it’s already late, but do you mind if I tell it?”
  
  Sure, Tsukuru said, that would be fine. I’m not sleepy yet.
  
  “When my father was young, he spent a year wandering around Japan,” Haida began. “This was at the end of the 1960s, the peak of the counterculture era, when the student movement was upending universities. I don’t know all the details, but when he was in college in Tokyo, a lot of stupid things happened, and he got fed up with politics and left the movement. He took a leave of absence from school and wandered around the country. He did odd jobs to earn a living, read books when he had the time, met all sorts of people, and gained a lot of real-life, practical experience. My father says this was the happiest time of his life, when he learned some important lessons. When I was a kid, he used to tell me stories from those days, like an old soldier reminiscing about long-ago battles in some far-off place. After those bohemian days, he went back to college, and returned to academic life. He never went on a long trip ever again. As far as I know, he’s spent his time since just shuttling back and forth between home and his office. It’s strange, isn’t it? No matter how quiet and conformist a person’s life seems, there’s always a time in the past when they reached an impasse. A time when they went a little crazy. I guess people need that sort of stage in their lives.”
  549. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
    
  PART I
  An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding feast, and detaineth one.	 IT is an ancient Mariner,	 
   And he stoppeth one of three.	 
   'By thy long beard and glittering eye,	 
   Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?	 
   
   The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,	         5
   And I am next of kin;	 
   The guests are met, the feast is set:	 
   May'st hear the merry din.'	 
   
   He holds him with his skinny hand,	 
   'There was a ship,' quoth he.	  10
   'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'	 
   Eftsoons his hand dropt he.	 
   
  The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.	 He holds him with his glittering eye—	 
   The Wedding-Guest stood still,	 
   And listens like a three years' child:	  15
   The Mariner hath his will.	 
   
   The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:	 
   He cannot choose but hear;	 
   And thus spake on that ancient man,	 
   The bright-eyed Mariner.	  20
   
   'The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd,	 
   Merrily did we drop	 
   Below the kirk, below the hill,	 
   Below the lighthouse top.	 
   
  The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line.	 The Sun came up upon the left,	  25
   Out of the sea came he!	 
   And he shone bright, and on the right	 
   Went down into the sea.	 
   
   Higher and higher every day,	 
   Till over the mast at noon——'	  30
   The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,	 
   For he heard the loud bassoon.	 
   
  The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale.	 The bride hath paced into the hall,	 
   Red as a rose is she;	 
   Nodding their heads before her goes	  35
   The merry minstrelsy.	 
   
   The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,	 
   Yet he cannot choose but hear;	 
   And thus spake on that ancient man,	 
   The bright-eyed Mariner.	  40
   
  The ship drawn by a storm toward the South Pole.	 'And now the Storm-blast came, and he	 
   Was tyrannous and strong:	 
   He struck with his o'ertaking wings,	 
   And chased us south along.	 
   
   With sloping masts and dipping prow,	  45
   As who pursued with yell and blow	 
   Still treads the shadow of his foe,	 
   And forward bends his head,	 
   The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast,	 
   The southward aye we fled.	  50
   
   And now there came both mist and snow,	 
   And it grew wondrous cold:	 
   And ice, mast-high, came floating by,	 
   As green as emerald.	 
   
  The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.	 And through the drifts the snowy clifts	  55
   Did send a dismal sheen:	 
   Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—	 
   The ice was all between.	 
   
   The ice was here, the ice was there,	 
   The ice was all around:	  60
   It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd,	 
   Like noises in a swound!	 
   
  Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.	 At length did cross an Albatross,	 
   Thorough the fog it came;	 
   As if it had been a Christian soul,	  65
   We hail'd it in God's name.	 
   
   It ate the food it ne'er had eat,	 
   And round and round it flew.	 
   The ice did split with a thunder-fit;	 
   The helmsman steer'd us through!	  70
   
  And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating ice.	 And a good south wind sprung up behind;	 
   The Albatross did follow,	 
   And every day, for food or play,	 
   Came to the mariners' hollo!	 
   
   In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,	  75
   It perch'd for vespers nine;	 
   Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,	 
   Glimmer'd the white moonshine.'	 
   
  The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.	 'God save thee, ancient Mariner!	 
   From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—	  80
   Why look'st thou so?'—'With my crossbow	 
   I shot the Albatross.	 
   
  PART II
   'The Sun now rose upon the right:	 
   Out of the sea came he,	 
   Still hid in mist, and on the left	  85
   Went down into the sea.	 
   
   And the good south wind still blew behind,	 
   But no sweet bird did follow,	 
   Nor any day for food or play	 
   Came to the mariners' hollo!	  90
   
  His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner for killing the bird of good luck.	 And I had done an hellish thing,	 
   And it would work 'em woe:	 
   For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird	 
   That made the breeze to blow.	 
   Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,	  95
   That made the breeze to blow!	 
   
  But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.	 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,	 
   The glorious Sun uprist:	 
   Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird	 
   That brought the fog and mist.	 100
   'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,	 
   That bring the fog and mist.	 
   
  The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line.	 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,	 
   The furrow follow'd free;	 
   We were the first that ever burst	 105
   Into that silent sea.	 
   
  The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.	 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,	 
   'Twas sad as sad could be;	 
   And we did speak only to break	 
   The silence of the sea!	 110
   
   All in a hot and copper sky,	 
   The bloody Sun, at noon,	 
   Right up above the mast did stand,	 
   No bigger than the Moon.	 
   
   Day after day, day after day,	 115
   We stuck, nor breath nor motion;	 
   As idle as a painted ship	 
   Upon a painted ocean.	 
   
  And the Albatross begins to be avenged.	 Water, water, everywhere,	 
   And all the boards did shrink;	 120
   Water, water, everywhere,	 
   Nor any drop to drink.	 
   
   The very deep did rot: O Christ!	 
   That ever this should be!	 
   Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs	 125
   Upon the slimy sea.	 
   
   About, about, in reel and rout	 
   The death-fires danced at night;	 
   The water, like a witch's oils,	 
   Burnt green, and blue, and white.	 130
   
  A Spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.	 And some in dreams assuréd were	 
   Of the Spirit that plagued us so;	 
   Nine fathom deep he had followed us	 
   From the land of mist and snow.	 
   
   And every tongue, through utter drought,	 135
   Was wither'd at the root;	 
   We could not speak, no more than if	 
   We had been choked with soot.	 
   
  The shipmates in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.	 Ah! well a-day! what evil looks	 
   Had I from old and young!	 140
   Instead of the cross, the Albatross	 
   About my neck was hung.	 
   
  PART III
   'There passed a weary time. Each throat	 
   Was parch'd, and glazed each eye.	 
   A weary time! a weary time!	 145
   How glazed each weary eye!	 
  The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.	 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;	 150
   It moved and moved, and took at last	 
   A certain shape, I wist.	 
   
   A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!	 
   And still it near'd and near'd:	 
   As if it dodged a water-sprite,	 155
   It plunged, and tack'd, and veer'd.	 
   
  At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.	 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,	 
   We could nor laugh nor wail;	 
   Through utter drought all dumb we stood!	 
   I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood,	 160
   And cried, A sail! a sail!	 
   
   With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,	 
   Agape they heard me call:	 
  A flash of joy;	 Gramercy! they for joy did grin,	 
   And all at once their breath drew in,	 165
   As they were drinking all.	 
   
  And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or tide?	 See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!	 
   Hither to work us weal—	 
   Without a breeze, without a tide,	 
   She steadies with upright keel!	 170
   
   The western wave was all aflame,	 
   The day was wellnigh done!	 
   Almost upon the western wave	 
   Rested the broad, bright Sun;	 
   When that strange shape drove suddenly	 175
   Betwixt us and the Sun.	 
   
  It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.	 And straight the Sun was fleck'd with bars	 
   (Heaven's Mother send us grace!),	 
   As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd	 
   With broad and burning face.	 180
   
   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?	 
   
  And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew!	 Are those her ribs through which the Sun	 185
   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,	 190
   Her locks were yellow as gold:	 
   Her skin was as white as leprosy,	 
   The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she,	 
   Who thicks man's blood with cold.	 
   
  Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.	 The naked hulk alongside came,	 195
   And the twain were casting dice;	 
   "The game is done! I've won! I've won!"	 
   Quoth she, and whistles thrice.	 
   
  No twilight within the courts of the Sun.	 The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:	 200
   At one stride comes the dark;	 
   With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,	 
   Off shot the spectre-bark.	 
   
   We listen'd and look'd sideways up!	 
   Fear at my heart, as at a cup,	 205
   My life-blood seem'd to sip!	 
   The stars were dim, and thick the night,	 
   The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white;	 
   From the sails the dew did drip—	 
  At the rising of the Moon,	 Till clomb above the eastern bar	 210
   The hornéd Moon, with one bright star	 
   Within the nether tip.	 
   
  One after another,	 One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon,	 
   Too quick for groan or sigh,	 
   Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang,	 215
   And cursed me with his eye.	 
   
  His shipmates drop down dead.	 Four times fifty living men	 
   (And I heard nor sigh nor groan),	 
   With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,	 
   They dropp'd down one by one.	 220
   
  But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.	 The souls did from their bodies fly—	 
   They fled to bliss or woe!	 
   And every soul, it pass'd me by	 
   Like the whizz of my crossbow!'	 
   
  PART IV
  The Wedding-Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him;	 'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!	 225
   I fear thy skinny hand!	 
   And thou art long, and lank, and brown,	 
   As is the ribb'd sea-sand.	 
   
   I fear thee and thy glittering eye,	 
   And thy skinny hand so brown.'—	 230
  But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.	 'Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!	 
   This body dropt not down.	 
   
   Alone, alone, all, all alone,	 
   Alone on a wide, wide sea!	 
   And never a saint took pity on	 235
   My soul in agony.	 
   
  He despiseth the creatures of the calm.	 The many men, so beautiful!	 
   And they all dead did lie:	 
   And a thousand thousand slimy things	 
   Lived on; and so did I.	 240
   
  And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.	 I look'd upon the rotting sea,	 
   And drew my eyes away;	 
   I look'd upon the rotting deck,	 
   And there the dead men lay.	 
   
   I look'd to heaven, and tried to pray;	 245
   But or ever a prayer had gusht,	 
   A wicked whisper came, and made	 
   My heart as dry as dust.	 
   
   I closed my lids, and kept them close,	 
   And the balls like pulses beat;	 250
   For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky,	 
   Lay like a load on my weary eye,	 
   And the dead were at my feet.	 
   
  But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.	 The cold sweat melted from their limbs,	 
   Nor rot nor reek did they:	 255
   The look with which they look'd on me	 
   Had never pass'd away.	 
   
   An orphan's curse would drag to hell	 
   A spirit from on high;	 
   But oh! more horrible than that	 260
   Is the curse in a dead man's eye!	 
   Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,	 
   And yet I could not die.	 
   
  In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.	 The moving Moon went up the sky,	 
   And nowhere did abide;	 265
   Softly she was going up,	 
   And a star or two beside—	 
   
   Her beams bemock'd the sultry main,	 
   Like April hoar-frost spread;	 
   But where the ship's huge shadow lay,	 270
   The charméd water burnt alway	 
   A still and awful red.	 
   
  By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm.	 Beyond the shadow of the ship,	 
   I watch'd the water-snakes:	 
   They moved in tracks of shining white,	 275
   And when they rear'd, the elfish light	 
   Fell off in hoary flakes.	 
   
   Within the shadow of the ship	 
   I watch'd their rich attire:	 
   Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,	 280
   They coil'd and swam; and every track	 
   Was a flash of golden fire.	 
   
  Their beauty and their happiness.	 O happy living things! no tongue	 
   Their beauty might declare:	 
   A spring of love gush'd from my heart,	 285
  He blesseth them in his heart.	 And I bless'd them unaware:	 
   Sure my kind saint took pity on me,	 
   And I bless'd them unaware.	 
   
  The spell begins to break.	 The selfsame moment I could pray;	 
   And from my neck so free	 290
   The Albatross fell off, and sank	 
   Like lead into the sea.	 
   
  PART V
   'O sleep! it is a gentle thing,	 
   Beloved from pole to pole!	 
   To Mary Queen the praise be given!	 295
   She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,	 
   That slid into my soul.	 
   
  By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain.	 The silly buckets on the deck,	 
   That had so long remain'd,	 
   I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew;	 300
   And when I awoke, it rain'd.	 
   
   My lips were wet, my throat was cold,	 
   My garments all were dank;	 
   Sure I had drunken in my dreams,	 
   And still my body drank.	 305
   
   I moved, and could not feel my limbs:	 
   I was so light—almost	 
   I thought that I had died in sleep,	 
   And was a blesséd ghost.	 
   
  He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.	 And soon I heard a roaring wind:	 310
   It did not come anear;	 
   But with its sound it shook the sails,	 
   That were so thin and sere.	 
   
   The upper air burst into life;	 
   And a hundred fire-flags sheen;	 315
   To and fro they were hurried about!	 
   And to and fro, and in and out,	 
   The wan stars danced between.	 
   
   And the coming wind did roar more loud,	 
   And the sails did sigh like sedge;	 320
   And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud;	 
   The Moon was at its edge.	 
   
   The thick black cloud was cleft, and still	 
   The Moon was at its side;	 
   Like waters shot from some high crag,	 325
   The lightning fell with never a jag,	 
   A river steep and wide.	 
   
  The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on;	 The loud wind never reach'd the ship,	 
   Yet now the ship moved on!	 
   Beneath the lightning and the Moon	 330
   The dead men gave a groan.	 
   
   They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose,	 
   Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;	 
   It had been strange, even in a dream,	 
   To have seen those dead men rise.	 335
   
   The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on;	 
   Yet never a breeze up-blew;	 
   The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,	 
   Where they were wont to do;	 
   They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—	 340
   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 naught to me.'	 345
   
  But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.	 'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'	 
   Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest:	 
   'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,	 
   Which to their corses came again,	 
   But a troop of spirits blest:	 350
   
   For when it dawn'd—they dropp'd their arms,	 
   And cluster'd round the mast;	 
   Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,	 
   And from their bodies pass'd.	 
   
   Around, around, flew each sweet sound,	 355
   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 skylark sing;	 360
   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;	 365
   And now it is an angel's song,	 
   That makes the Heavens be mute.	 
   
   It ceased; yet still the sails made on	 
   A pleasant noise till noon,	 
   A noise like of a hidden brook	 370
   In the leafy month of June,	 
   That to the sleeping woods all night	 
   Singeth a quiet tune.	 
   
   Till noon we quietly sail'd on,	 
   Yet never a breeze did breathe:	 375
   Slowly and smoothly went the ship,	 
   Moved onward from beneath.	 
   
  The lonesome Spirit from the South Pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.	 Under the keel nine fathom deep,	 
   From the land of mist and snow,	 
   The Spirit slid: and it was he	 380
   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:	 385
   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,	 390
   She made a sudden bound:	 
   It flung the blood into my head,	 
   And I fell down in a swound.	 
   
  The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.	 How long in that same fit I lay,	 
   I have not to declare;	 395
   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,	 400
   With his cruel bow he laid full low	 
   The harmless Albatross.	 
   
   The Spirit who bideth by himself	 
   In the land of mist and snow,	 
   He loved the bird that loved the man	 405
   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."	 410
   
  PART VI
   First Voice: '"But tell me, tell me! speak again,	 
   Thy soft response renewing—	 
   What makes that ship drive on so fast?	 
   What is the Ocean doing?"	 
   
   Second Voice: "Still as a slave before his lord,	 415
   The Ocean hath no blast;	 
   His great bright eye most silently	 
   Up to the Moon is cast—	 
   
   If he may know which way to go;	 
   For she guides him smooth or grim.	 420
   See, brother, see! how graciously	 
   She looketh down on him."	 
   
  The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.	 First Voice: "But why drives on that ship so fast,	 
   Without or wave or wind?"	 
   
   Second Voice: "The air is cut away before,	 425
   And closes from behind.	 
   
   Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!	 
   Or we shall be belated:	 
   For slow and slow that ship will go,	 
   When the Mariner's trance is abated.'	 430
   
  The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.	 I woke, and we were sailing on	 
   As in a gentle weather:	 
   'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;	 
   The dead men stood together.	 
   
   All stood together on the deck,	 435
   For a charnel-dungeon fitter:	 
   All fix'd on me their stony eyes,	 
   That in the Moon did glitter.	 
   
   The pang, the curse, with which they died,	 
   Had never pass'd away:	 440
   I could not draw my eyes from theirs,	 
   Nor turn them up to pray.	 
   
  The curse is finally expiated.	 And now this spell was snapt: once more	 
   I viewed the ocean green,	 
   And look'd far forth, yet little saw	 445
   Of what had else been seen—	 
   
   Like one that on a lonesome road	 
   Doth walk in fear and dread,	 
   And having once turn'd round, walks on,	 
   And turns no more his head;	 450
   Because he knows a frightful fiend	 
   Doth close behind him tread.	 
   
   But soon there breathed a wind on me,	 
   Nor sound nor motion made:	 
   Its path was not upon the sea,	 455
   In ripple or in shade.	 
   
   It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek	 
   Like a meadow-gale of spring—	 
   It mingled strangely with my fears,	 
   Yet it felt like a welcoming.	 460
   
   Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,	 
   Yet she sail'd softly too:	 
   Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—	 
   On me alone it blew.	 
   
  And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.	 O dream of joy! is this indeed	 465
   The lighthouse top I see?	 
   Is this the hill? is this the kirk?	 
   Is this mine own countree?	 
   
   We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,	 
   And I with sobs did pray—	 470
   O let me be awake, my God!	 
   Or let me sleep alway.	 
   
   The harbour-bay was clear as glass,	 
   So smoothly it was strewn!	 
   And on the bay the moonlight lay,	 475
   And the shadow of the Moon.	 
   
   The rock shone bright, the kirk no less	 
   That stands above the rock:	 
   The moonlight steep'd in silentness	 
   The steady weathercock.	 480
   
  The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,	 And the bay was white with silent light	 
   Till rising from the same,	 
   Full many shapes, that shadows were,	 
   In crimson colours came.	 
   
  And appear in their own forms of light.	 A little distance from the prow	 485
   Those crimson shadows were:	 
   I turn'd my eyes upon the deck—	 
   O Christ! what saw I there!	 
   
   Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,	 
   And, by the holy rood!	 490
   A man all light, a seraph-man,	 
   On every corse there stood.	 
   
   This seraph-band, each waved his hand:	 
   It was a heavenly sight!	 
   They stood as signals to the land,	 495
   Each one a lovely light;	 
   
   This seraph-band, each waved his hand,	 
   No voice did they impart—	 
   No voice; but O, the silence sank	 
   Like music on my heart.	 500
   
   But soon I heard the dash of oars,	 
   I heard the Pilot's cheer;	 
   My head was turn'd perforce away,	 
   And I saw a boat appear.	 
   
   The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,	 505
   I heard them coming fast:	 
   Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy	 
   The dead men could not blast.	 
   
   I saw a third—I heard his voice:	 
   It is the Hermit good!	 510
   He singeth loud his godly hymns	 
   That he makes in the wood.	 
   He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away	 
   The Albatross's blood.	 
   
  PART VII
  The Hermit of the Wood.	 'This Hermit good lives in that wood	 515
   Which slopes down to the sea.	 
   How loudly his sweet voice he rears!	 
   He loves to talk with marineres	 
   That come from a far countree.	 
   
   He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—	 520
   He hath a cushion plump:	 
   It is the moss that wholly hides	 
   The rotted old oak-stump.	 
   
   The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them talk,	 
   "Why, this is strange, I trow!	 525
   Where are those lights so many and fair,	 
   That signal made but now?"	 
   
  Approacheth the ship with wonder.	 "Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said—	 
   "And they answer'd not our cheer!	 
   The planks looked warp'd! and see those sails,	 530
   How thin they are and sere!	 
   I never saw aught like to them,	 
   Unless perchance it were	 
   
   Brown skeletons of leaves that lag	 
   My forest-brook along;	 535
   When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,	 
   And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,	 
   That eats the she-wolf's young."	 
   
   "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look—	 
   (The Pilot made reply)	 540
   I am a-fear'd"—"Push on, push on!"	 
   Said the Hermit cheerily.	 
   
   The boat came closer to the ship,	 
   But I nor spake nor stirr'd;	 
   The boat came close beneath the ship,	 545
   And straight a sound was heard.	 
   
  The ship suddenly sinketh.	 Under the water it rumbled on,	 
   Still louder and more dread:	 
   It reach'd the ship, it split the bay;	 
   The ship went down like lead.	 550
   
  The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.	 Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound,	 
   Which sky and ocean smote,	 
   Like one that hath been seven days drown'd	 
   My body lay afloat;	 
   But swift as dreams, myself I found	 555
   Within the Pilot's boat.	 
   
   Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,	 
   The boat spun round and round;	 
   And all was still, save that the hill	 
   Was telling of the sound.	 560
   
   I moved my lips—the Pilot shriek'd	 
   And fell down in a fit;	 
   The holy Hermit raised his eyes,	 
   And pray'd where he did sit.	 
   
   I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,	 565
   Who now doth crazy go,	 
   Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while	 
   His eyes went to and fro.	 
   "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see	 
   The Devil knows how to row."	 570
   
   And now, all in my own countree,	 
   I stood on the firm land!	 
   The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat,	 
   And scarcely he could stand.	 
   
  The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.	 "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"	 575
   The Hermit cross'd his brow.	 
   "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say—	 
   What manner of man art thou?"	 
   
   Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd	 
   With a woful agony,	 580
   Which forced me to begin my tale;	 
   And then it left me free.	 
   
  And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land;	 Since then, at an uncertain hour,	 
   That agony returns:	 
   And till my ghastly tale is told,	 585
   This heart within me burns.	 
   
   I pass, like night, from land to land;	 
   I have strange power of speech;	 
   That moment that his face I see,	 
   I know the man that must hear me:	 590
   To him my tale I teach.	 
   
   What loud uproar bursts from that door!	 
   The wedding-guests are there:	 
   But in the garden-bower the bride	 
   And bride-maids singing are:	 595
   And hark the little vesper bell,	 
   Which biddeth me to prayer!	 
   
   O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been	 
   Alone on a wide, wide sea:	 
   So lonely 'twas, that God Himself	 600
   Scarce seeméd there to be.	 
   
   O sweeter than the marriage-feast,	 
   'Tis sweeter far to me,	 
   To walk together to the kirk	 
   With a goodly company!—	 605
   
   To walk together to the kirk,	 
   And all together pray,	 
   While each to his great Father bends,	 
   Old men, and babes, and loving friends,	 
   And youths and maidens gay!	 610
   
  And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.	 Farewell, farewell! but this I tell	 
   To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!	 
   He prayeth well, who loveth well	 
   Both man and bird and beast.	 
   
   He prayeth best, who loveth best	 615
   All things both great and small;	 
   For the dear God who loveth us,	 
   He made and loveth all.'	 
   
   The Mariner, whose eye is bright,	 
   Whose beard with age is hoar,	620
   Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest	 
   Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.	 
   
   He went like one that hath been stunn'd,	 
   And is of sense forlorn:	 
   A sadder and a wiser man	625
   He rose the morrow morn.	 
   
  `
  