The body of my brother's son
Stood by me knee to knee :

The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me."

"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 :

For when it dawned-they dropped their arms,

And clustered round the mast:

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,

Then darted to the sun :

Slowly the sounds came back again

Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the Sky-lark sing;

Sometimes all little birds that are

How they seemed 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 ceased: 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.

Till noon we silently sailed on,

Yet never a breeze did breathe:

Slowly and smoothly went the Ship
Moved 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 fixed 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 returned,

I heard and in my soul discerned

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 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
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.'