La belle Dame sans Merci

O 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 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 set her on my paci...