And a good south wind sprung up behind;

the albatross did follow,

and every day, for food or play,

came to the mariner’s hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

it perched for vespers nine;

whiles all the night, trough fog-smoke white

glimmered the white moon-shine.

God saves thee, ancient mariner!

From the fiends, that plague thee thus!

Why looks thou so? -With my cross bow

I shot the Albatross…

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. England (1772-1834)