Part 4 — LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 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 cheeks 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 made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long,

For sideways would she bend, and sing A faery’s song. 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 wept and sighed full sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill’s side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried—“La belle dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!” I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill’s side. 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