La Belle Dame sans Merci

(La Belle Dame sans Merci, by William Waterhouse)

O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is 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 they cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a Lady in the Meads
Full beautiful, a fairy’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 sideways 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 sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dream’d, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hillside.

I saw pale Kings, and Princes too
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried, ‘La belle dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill side.

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

~John Keats