and no birds sing

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

Oh 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 lulled 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
      Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
      With horrid warning gaped 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.

This is 'La Belle Dame sans Merci' by John Keats, from T.E. Lawrence's copy of the Oxford Book of English Verse. It is the 18th poem he wrote out in Minorities, his pocket book of blank pages.

The editor of Minorities says Lawrence felt Keats could be too sugary, but his music soared when he succeeded in restraining himself. He quotes a letter: "Art creation is avoidance as much as it is presentation. And it's interesting to see Keats' growth in force (and decline in sweetness) from Endymion to Hyperion." (from a letter to V. Richards written in 1922)

---

{This painting of 1893 by John Waterhouse is found on many websites; it's based on La Belle Dame Sans Merci and it illustrates the lines:

She took me to her elfin grot,
      And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes -
      So kiss'd to sleep.*}

---

Some sources:

Minorities, by T E Lawrence; ed. by Jeremy Wilson (London, Cape, 1971).

The Oxford Book of English Verse, HTML edition

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Note: * This is from a revised version of the poem, not the one that's most anthologized:

Ah, 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 pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.

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.

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 gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kiss'd to sleep.

And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill 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.

-- Unpublished Poems of John Keats