.
.
La Belle Dame sans Merci

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
     Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered 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 see 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 looked 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 gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes -
     So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
     And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
     On the cold hill side.

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 and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
     And no birds sing. 

>