"Pauline, my burning rose," he whispered.
And all the way back into the crimson sunset they talked still in whispers, and of those rain-drenched ragged-robins there was not one they carried home.
La belle Dame sans mercy hath thee in thrall!
La belle Dame sans mercy hath thee in thrall!
La belle Dame sans mercy hath thee in thrall!
The words did not cool Guy's pillow that night, but they led him by strange ways into a fevered sleep.