La Belle Dame sans Merci O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrels in their holes, the trees, As baffled as your hopes.

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 kisses for her pretty head, And she did love me for it:** Oh, how I loved her so instead!**

She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed fill day, And there she sit, as unique Art, And vile Truth, did play.

• John Keats