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She rose among us where we lay. She wept, we put our work away. She chilled our laughter, stilled our play; And spread a silence there. And darkness shot across the sky, And once, and twice, we heard her cry; And saw her lift white hands on high And toss her troubled hair.
What shape was this who came to us, With basilisk eyes so ominous, With mouth so sweet, so poisonous, And tortured hands so pale?
We saw her wavering to and fro, Through dark and wind we saw her go; Yet what her name was did not know; And felt our spirits fail. We tried to turn away; but still Above we heard her sorrow thrill; And those that slept, they dreamed of ill And dreadful things: Of skies grown red with rending flames And shuddering hills that cracked their frames; Of twilights foul with wings; And skeletons dancing to a tune; And cries of children stifled soon; And over all a blood-red moon A dull and nightmare size.
They woke, and sought to go their ways, Yet everywhere they met her gaze, Her fixed and burning eyes. Who are you now, —we cried to her— Spirit so strange, so sinister? We felt dead winds above us stir; And in the darkness heard A voice How does coleridge in the rime, singing, cloying sweet, Heavily dropping, though that heat, Heavy as honeyed pulses beat, Slow word by anguished word.
And through the night strange music went With voice and cry so darkly blent We could not fathom what they meant; Save only that they seemed To thin the blood along our veins, Foretelling vile, delirious pains, And clouds divulging blood-red rains Upon a hill undreamed. And this we heard: But who denies me cursed shall be, And slain, and buried loathsomely, And slimed upon with shame.
And like a sea Of stumbling deaths we followed, we Who dared not stay behind. There all night long beneath a cloud We rose and fell, we struck and bowed, We were the ploughman and the ploughed, Our eyes were red and blind.
And some, they said, had touched her side, Before she fled us there; And some had taken her to bride; And some lain down for her and died; Who had not touched her hair, Ran to and fro and cursed and cried And sought her everywhere. Sweet daisy fields were drenched with death, The air became a charnel breath, Pale stones were splashed with red.
Green leaves were dappled bright with blood And fruit trees murdered in the bud; And when at length the dawn Came green as twilight from the east, And all that heaving horror ceased, Silent was every bird and beast, And that dark voice was gone. No word was there, no song, no bell, No furious tongue that dream to tell; Only the dead, who rose and fell Above the wounded men; And whisperings and wails of pain Blown slowly from the wounded grain, Blown slowly from the smoking plain; And silence fallen again.
Until at dusk, from God knows where, Beneath dark birds that filled the air, Like one who did not hear or care, Under a blood-red cloud, An aged ploughman came alone And drove his share through flesh and bone, And turned them under to mould and stone; All night long he ploughed.
Directive Back out of all this now too much for us, Back in a time made simple by the loss Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather, There is a house that is no more a house Upon a farm that is no more a farm And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you Who only has at heart your getting lost, May seem as if it should have been a quarry — Great monolithic knees the former town Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered. And there's a story in a book about it: Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest, The chisel work of an enormous Glacier That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
|Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Wikipedia||One of the first things a reader notices is Coleridge's use of words that had become archaic long before his own time, such as "eftsoons," and the unusual spellings and capitalizations, in the "Argument" "Ancyent Marinere," for example and in the poem In " The Rime of the Ancient Mariner " Coleridge draws on both the typical style and content of the English ballad to create an appropriate and unique atmosphere for the timeless message he imparts.|
|Samuel Taylor Coleridge | Poetry Foundation||With this view I wrote the 'Ancient Mariner'.|
|Gustave Dore Art Images||Samuel was the youngest of ten by the Reverend Mr. I enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, though at the same time, a very severe master [|
|Eş anlamlılar||Themes The Transformative Power of the Imagination Coleridge believed that a strong, active imagination could become a vehicle for transcending unpleasant circumstances. Many of his poems are powered exclusively by imaginative flights, wherein the speaker temporarily abandons his immediate surroundings, exchanging them for an entirely new and completely fabricated experience.|
|Cabeza de Vaca, Alvar Núñez||It's more than just a gallery.|
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal Of being watched from forty cellar holes As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins. As for the woods' excitement over you That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves, Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago? They think too much of having shaded out A few old pecker-fretted apple trees. Make yourself up a cheering song of how Someone's road home from work this once was, Who may be just ahead of you on foot Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height Of country where two village cultures faded Into each other. Both of them are lost. Then make yourself at home. The only field Now left's no bigger than a harness gall. First there's the children's house of make-believe, Some shattered dishes underneath a pine, The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad. Then for the house that is no more a house, But only a belilaced cellar hole, Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest. Your destination and your destiny's A brook that was the water of the house, Cold as a spring as yet so near its source, Too lofty and original to rage. We know the valley streams that when aroused Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.
I have kept hidden in the instep arch Of an old cedar at the waterside A broken drinking goblet like the Grail Under a spell so the wrong ones can't find it, So can't get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn't.
I stole the goblet from the children's playhouse. Here are your waters and your watering place. Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.PART I: An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding feast, and detaineth one.
IT is an ancient Mariner: And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long beard and glittering eye. The result of Coleridge's careful diction is to present "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" as an old, old tale (the stuff of myth and legend) rather than a modern story.
The Friendship: Wordsworth and Coleridge [Adam Sisman] on rutadeltambor.com *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Traces the friendship and collaborations of William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from their initial encounter as young men in SuperSummary, a modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, offers high-quality study guides that feature detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, quotes, and essay topics.
This one-page guide includes a plot summary and brief analysis of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem The Rime of the [ ].
The HyperTexts Halloween Poetry: Dark, Eerie, Haunting and Scary poems about Ghosts, Witches, Vampires, Werewolves, Reanimated Corpses and "Things that go Bump in the Night".
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