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