The Blue Poetry Book.1912.
Edited by Andrew Lang.
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY.
Ah ! What can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering ?
The sedge is withered 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 fairy’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 lead and sing
A fairy’s song.
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.
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 gazed and sighèd deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes -
So kissed to sleep.
And there we slumbered on the moss,
And there I dreamed, ah ! woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed,
On the cold hill-side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors - death-pale were they all ;
Who cried, “La Belle Dame Sans Mercy
Hath thee in thrall !”
I saw their starved lips in the gloom,
With horrid warning gapèd 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 withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
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