Poet's corner No. 22

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 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 cheeks 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 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.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A fairy's song.

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 wept, and sigh'd full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

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!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here

On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

John Keats

La Belle Dame Sans Merci 

Happy Birthday John.