Oh what can ail thee, knight at arms,
So haggard and so woebegone?
The squirrels granary is full,
And the harvest is 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 Fairy'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 sidelong would she bend,
And sing a Faery 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 lulled me asleep,
And there I dreamed-Ah!Woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreampt,
on the cold hillside.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried-La Belle Dame sans Merci,
Hath thee in thy thrall!
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning, gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hillside.
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 -