So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft
The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes;
And, seeing it asleep, so fled away—
Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,
Nor unto Tempe where Jove grieved a day;
But to that second circle of sad hell,
Where 'mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw,
Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form
I floated with, about that melancholy storm.
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
Sent in a letter to George and Georgiana Keats, April 28, 1819, and printed by Leigh Hunt in The Indicator, May 10, 1820. Hunt says the poem was suggested by that title at the head of a translation from Alan Chartier at the end of Chaucer's works.
I
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
II
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest 's done.
III
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
IV
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.
V
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.
VI
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.
VII
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said—
'I love thee true.'
VIII
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed, and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
So kiss'd to sleep.
IX
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.
X
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!'
XI
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.
XII
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
