LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
O, what can ail thee, knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O, what can ail thee, knight at arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lilly on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said—
I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighed full sore:
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:
They cry'd—"La belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
John Keats