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The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 3-1



‘On Breydon Water-Sea-Fog’

Originally uploaded by National Media Museum



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 unslacked, with black lips baked,
We could not laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood:
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
And cried, ‘A sail! a sail!’

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