...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; 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, (quoth 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 Doth peer, as through a grate? And is that woman all her crew? Is death that woman's mate? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold; Her skin was white as leprosy, The nightmare life-in-death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold.