Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and
palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
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 cheek 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 set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else
saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.
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.
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
gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kiss'd to sleep.
;
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.
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!"
I saw their starv'd 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 and palely
loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
 |
John Keats, 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci' |
