C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
By John Keats (1795–1821)
A
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
Full beautiful, a faëry’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faëry’s song.
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
“I love thee true.”
And there she gazed and sighèd deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes—
So kissed to sleep.
And there I dreamed—ah! woe betide—
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hillside.
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry’d—“La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hillside.
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.