La Belle Dame Sans Merci

O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
4Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
4And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
4So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
4And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow
4With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
4Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
4Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
4And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
4And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
4And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
4And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
4A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
4And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
4“I love thee true.”

She took me to her elfin grot,
4And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
4With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,
4And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
4On the cold hill’s side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
4Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
4Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
4With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
4On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
4Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
4And no birds sing.

John Keats (1795–1821)

Keats rocks. Even though I know exactly shit about poetry, I've always liked Keats and Poe.