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Elective English—IV




                    Notes          Water, water, every where,
                                   Nor any drop to drink.

                                   The very deep did rot: O Christ!
                                   That ever this should be!
                                   Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
                                   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.

                                   And some in dreams assurèd 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,
                                   Was withered at the root;
                                   We could not speak, no more than if
                                   We had been choked with soot.

                                   Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
                                   Had I from old and young!
                                   Instead of the cross, the Albatross
                                   About my neck was hung.

                                   PART III

                                   There passed a weary time. Each throat
                                   Was parched, and glazed each eye.
                                   A weary time! a weary time!
                                   How glazed each weary eye,

                                   When looking westward, I beheld
                                   A something in the sky.


                                   At first it seemed a little speck,
                                   And then it seemed a mist;
                                   It moved and moved, and took at last
                                   A certain shape, I wist.

                                   A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
                                   And still it neared and neared:
                                   As if it dodged a water-sprite,
                                   It plunged and tacked and veered.

                                   With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
                                   We could nor laugh nor wail;
                                   Through utter drought all dumb we stood!




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