Came to the mariners’ hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white
Glimmered the white moon-shine.”
“God save thee, ancient Mariner,
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look’st thou so?”—“With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross.”
S. T. Coleridge.