Here you will find the Poem A Soliloquy Of The Full Moon, She Being In A Mad Passion of poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Now as Heaven is my Lot, they're the Pests of the Nation! Wherever they can come With clankum and blankum 'Tis all Botheration, & Hell & Damnation, With fun, jeering Conjuring Sky-staring, Loungering, And still to the tune of Transmogrification-- Those muttering Spluttering Ventriloquogusty Poets With no Hats Or Hats that are rusty. They're my Torment and Curse And harass me worse And bait me and bay me, far sorer I vow Than the Screech of the Owl Or the witch-wolf's long howl, Or sheep-killing Butcher-dog's inward Bow wow For me they all spite--an unfortunate Wight. And the very first moment that I came to Light A Rascal call'd Voss the more to his scandal, Turn'd me into a sickle with never a handle. A Night or two after a worse Rogue there came, The head of the Gang, one Wordsworth by name-- `Ho! What's in the wind?' 'Tis the voice of a Wizzard! I saw him look at me most terribly blue ! He was hunting for witch-rhymes from great A to Izzard, And soon as he'd found them made no more ado But chang'd me at once to a little Canoe. From this strange Enchantment uncharm'd by degrees I began to take courage & hop'd for some Ease, When one Coleridge, a Raff of the self-same Banditti Past by--& intending no doubt to be witty, Because I'd th' ill-fortune his taste to displease, He turn'd up his nose, And in pitiful Prose Made me into the half of a small Cheshire Cheese. Well, a night or two past--it was wind, rain & hail-- And I ventur'd abroad in a thick Cloak & veil-- But the very first Evening he saw me again The last mentioned Ruffian popp'd out of his Den-- I was resting a moment on the bare edge of Naddle I fancy the sight of me turn'd his Brains addle-- For what was I now? A complete Barley-mow And when I climb'd higher he made a long leg, And chang'd me at once to an Ostrich's Egg-- But now Heaven be praised in contempt of the Loon, I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon. Yet my heart is still fluttering-- For I heard the Rogue muttering-- He was hulking and skulking at the skirt of a Wood When lightly & brightly on tip-toe I stood On the long level Line of a motionless Cloud And ho! what a Skittle-ground! quoth he aloud And wish'd from his heart nine Nine-pins to see In brightness & size just proportion'd to me. So I fear'd from my soul, That he'd make me a Bowl, But in spite of his spite This was more than his might And still Heaven be prais'd! in contempt of the Loon I am I myself I, the jolly full Moon.