ART OF EUROPE

John Keats - La Belle Dame Sans Merci

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
  Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd 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 lily 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 look'd 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 sidelong would she lean, and sing
    A faery's song.

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 wept, and sigh'd full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
    With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
  And there I dream'd - ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dream'd
    On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - "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's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
  Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
    And no birds sing.