Ah, what can ail thee wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing. II. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight. So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full And the harvest’s done. III. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. IV. 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. V. 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. VI. 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. VII. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true. VIII. 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. IX. 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. X. 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!” XI. I saw their starv’d lips in the gloom With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill-side. XII. And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing. JOHN KEATS. THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE. In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, Till spells came o’er him, and, day and night, He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite! As once, by moonlight, he wandered o’er The golden sands of that island shore, A foot-print sparkled before his sight— ’Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite! Beside a fountain, one sunny day, As bending over the stream he lay, There peep’d down o’er him two eyes of light, And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite. He turn’d, but lo, like a startled bird, That spirit fled!—and the youth but heard Sweet music, such as marks the flight Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite. One night, still haunted by that bright look, The boy, bewilder’d, his pencil took, And, guided only by memory’s light, Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite. “Oh thou, who lovest the shadow,” cried A voice, low whisp’ring by his side, “Now turn and see,”—here the youth’s delight Seal’d the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.