La Belle Dame Sans Merci

I

AH, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

Alone and palely loitering;

The sedge is wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

II

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

III

I see a lilly on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever dew;

And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

IV

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.

V

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.

VI

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.

VII

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew;

And sure in language strange she said,

I love thee true.

VIII

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,

And there I shut her wild sad eyes—

So kiss'd to sleep.

IX

And there we slumber'd on the moss,

And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,

The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill side.

X

I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

Who cry'd—"La belle Dame sans merci

Hath thee in thrall!"

XI

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.

XII

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, 1820