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
The Back-Up Guestbook
