[Written at Alfoxden in the spring of 1798, under circumstances somewhat remarkable.  The little girl who is the heroine, I met within the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793.  Having left the Isle of Wight, and crost Salisbury Plain, as mentioned in the preface to ‘Guilt and Sorrow’, I proceeded by Bristol up the Wye, and so on to N. Wales to the Vale of Clwydd, where I spent my summer under the roof of the father of my friend, Robert Jones.

In reference to this poem, I will here mention one of the most remarkable facts in my own poetic history, and that of Mr. Coleridge.  In the spring of the year 1798, he, my sister, and myself, started from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near it; and as our united funds were very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem, to be sent to the ‘New Monthly Magazine’, set up by Philips, the bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aikin.  Accordingly we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills, towards Watchet; and in the course of this walk was planned the poem of ‘The Ancient Mariner’, founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank.  Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge’s invention; but certain parts I myself suggested:  for example, some crime was to be committed which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of that crime, and his own wanderings.  I had been reading in Shelvocke’s ‘Voyages’, a day or two before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, they frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet.  ‘Suppose,’ said I, ’you represent him as having killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the crime.’  The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly.  I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem.  The gloss with which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of us at the time; at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous after-thought.  We began the composition together, on that to me memorable evening:  I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular—­

    And listen’d like a three years’ child;
    The Mariner had his will.