Aye, sea-turtles.

[ithika]

heh. Many funny moments involving that quote today in Biol...
We were studying Sea-horses. (And other things, but lets not go into details, savvy?)
Aye, sea-turtles.
Much silliness ensued, and another
"What's funny?"
"I don't know!!"
Moment... Ahah.

Now. This here is part of my current favourite poem. It's not here in it's entirety coz it's damn near 16 pages long.

From
The Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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,
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a-flame,
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave,
Rested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
(Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres?

Are those her ribs through which the Sun
Did peer, as though a grate?
And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? And are there two?
Is Death that woman's mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was whate as leprosy,
The Night-mare Life-In-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
'The game is done! I've won! I've won!'
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed
white;
From the sails the dew did drip-
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The horn'ed Moon, with one bright stare
Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly, -
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it passed me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

--
Tada, and that, my friends, is a small section of what is currently one of my favourite poems.
(The reason the sailor was punished was that he killed an albatross with his cross-bow.)

I like it much... Whee!

Comments

[tattered-pinion.livejournal.com]

Poetry that doesn't rhyme has to be pretty special for me to respect it actually.