La belle dame sans merci
John Keats’s poem “La belle dame sans merci” was written in 1819. Under pressure and in failing health, Keats revised the poem for publication in the 10 May 1820 issue of “The Indicator”. His original version, followed here, wasn’t published until 1848, 27 years after his death.
John Keats was born on 31 October 1795 in London, England, and he died on 23 February 1821 in Rome, Papal States, at the age of 25.Keats was an English poet of the second generation of Romantic poets, with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley. His poems had been in publication for less than four years when he died of tuberculosis at the age of 25. They were indifferently received in his lifetime, but his fame grew rapidly after his death.
External links:
-
Watch this video on YouTube
-
Wikipedia page on “La belle dame sans merci”
-
Wikipedia page on John Keats
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 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 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 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 sigh’d full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.
And there she lullèd 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 Thee hath 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’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.