Passing from the long compositions, we find the cream of Keats's poetry in the ballad of "La Belle Dame sans Merci," and in the five odes--"To Psyche," "To Autumn," "On Melancholy," "To a Nightingale," and "On a Grecian Urn." "La Belle Dame sans Merci" may possibly have been written later than any of the odes, but this point is uncertain. I give it here as marking the highest point of romantic imagination to which Keats attained in dealing with human or quasi-human personages, and also his highest level of simplicity along with completeness of art. "Ah what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,[24] Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing. "Ah 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 sideways would she lean 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 gazed and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes-- So kissed to sleep. "And there we slumbered on the moss, And there I dreamed--ah woe betide!-- The latest dream I ever dreamed 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-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 a poem of _impression_. The impression is immediate, final, and permanent; and words would be more than wasted upon pointing out to the reader that such and such are the details which have conduced to impress him.