LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI, John Keats. O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, The sedge has wither'd from the lake, O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! And the harvest 's done. I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew, 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, 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 lulled 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; "La Belle Dame sans Merci They cried Hath thee in thrall!" I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 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. I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD. William Wordsworth. I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Continuous as the stars that shine Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company: I gazed and gazed - but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. William Wordsworth. SHE was a Phantom of delight A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; I saw her upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, A countenance in which did meet And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, NAMES. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I ASK'D my fair one happy day, What I should call her in my lay; By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; Lalage, Neæra, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, Arethusa or Lucrece. 'Ah!' replied my gentle fair, 'Beloved, what are names but air? Choose thou whatever suits the line; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or Doris, Only, only call me Thine.' HIGHLAND MARY. Robert Burns. YE banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery! Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie: |