Poem: "La Belle Dame Sans Merci"

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John William Waterhouse

April is National Poetry Month and, aside from reading the Keats bio, I think I've been rather remiss in not celebrating it. So, a bit belatedly, I thought I'd try to post a few poems over the rest of the month. First up: hope you're not sick of Keats. (I'm not. Obviously.) I just love the rhythm of this poem - the fourth line hits you every time.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci*

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh 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 faery'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 looked 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 faery'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 sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill 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 starved 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.

And because listening to poetry is so lovely, also this: Ben Whishaw reading "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." (YouTube)

*There are two versions - I prefer this one, written in 1819, when Keats was 24. Amazing.