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)