The Catt Box

          

Art work by: J. W. Waterhouse 

 

'La Belle Dame Sans Merci'

By: John Keats

   

 

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.

 

 

 

Art work by:  Sir Frank Dicksee