Page 49 - DENG203_ELECTIVE_ENGLISH_IV
P. 49

Elective English—IV




                    Notes          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 quietly 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 down in 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.’





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