She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 44. _La Belle Dame sans Merci._ 1. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. 2. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. 3. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. 4. 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. 5. 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. 6. 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. 7. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true. 8. 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. 9. 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. 10. 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!" 11. 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. 12. And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. 45. _Sonnet._ When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. _Buxton Forman's Text._ * * * * * CHARLES LAMB. 46. _The Old Familiar Faces._