Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
- Alone and palely loitering?
- The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
- And no birds sing.
- Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
- 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 cheek a fading rose
- Fast withereth too.
- I med 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 set her on my pacing steed,
- And nothing else saw all day long;
- For sideways would she lean, and sing
- A faery's song.
- 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.
- 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 gazed, and sighed deep,
- And there I shut her wild, wild eyes--
- So kiss'd to sleep.
- 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.
- I saw pale kings, and princes too,
- Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
- Who cry'd -- 'La Belle Dame sans Merci,
- Hath thee in thrall!'
- I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
- With horrid warning gapèd wide,
- And I awoke, and found me here
- On the cold hill 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.
- The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
