Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury. 1875.
John Keats CXCIII. La Belle Dame Sans Merci“O
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d 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 cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.”
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
And honey wild and manna-dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
‘I love thee true.’
And there she wept and sigh’d full sore;
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there I dream’d—ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:
They cried, ‘La belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill’s side.
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.”