La Belle Dame sans Merci

Thus, The Blessed Damozel, a poem of spirits in heaven.

La Belle Dame sans Merci, whose heroine may be a fairy or witch, and whose ghosts are presented in dream only, do not belong in this classification.

Nor do such poems as Matilda Blind's lovely sonnet, The Dead are Ever with Us, class as ghost poems, for in these the dead are living in ourselves in a half-metaphorical sense.

If a poem would be a ghost story, in short, I have considered it a ghost poem, not otherwise.

who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find thee sitting careless on a granary floor thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep drowsed with the fume of poppies while thy hook spares the next swath and all its twined flowers and sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook or by a cider press with patient look thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours where are the songs of spring ay where are they think not of them thou hast thy music too while barred clouds bloom the soft dying day and touch the stubble plains with rosy hue then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn among the river sallows borne aloft or sinking as the light wind lives or dies and full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn hedge-crickets sing and now with treble soft the redbreast whistles from a garden croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies ode on melancholy no no go not to lethe neither twist wolf's bane tight-rooted for its poisonous wine nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed by nightshade ruby grape of proserpine make not your rosary of yew berries nor let the beetle nor the death moth be your mournful psyche nor the downy owl a partner in your sorrow's mysteries for shade to shade will come too drowsily and drown the wakeful anguish of the soul but when the melancholy fit shall fall sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud that fosters the droop-headed flowers all and hides the green hill in an april shroud then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose or on the rainbow of the salt sand wave or on the wealth of globed peonies or if thy mistress some rich anger shows imprison her soft hand and let her rave and feed deep deep upon her peerless eyes 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 aye in the very temple of delight veiled melancholy has her sovereign 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 This recording is in the public domain.

ah what can ail thee wretched wight alone and palely loitering the sedge is withered 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 fairy'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 fairy's song 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 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 who 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 End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

when i have fears that i may cease to be before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain before high-piled books in charactery hold like rich garners the full ripened grain when i behold upon the night's starred 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 fairy 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 the old familiar faces where are they gone the old familiar faces i had a mother but she died and left me died prematurely in a day of horrors all all are gone the old familiar faces i have had playmates i have had companions in my days of childhood in my joyful school days all all are gone the old familiar faces i have been laughing i have been carousing drinking late sitting late with my bosom cronies all all are gone the old familiar faces i loved a love once fairest among women closed are her doors on me i must not see her all all are gone the old familiar faces i have a friend a kinder friend has no man like an ingrate i left my friend abruptly left him to muse on the old familiar faces ghost-like i paced round the haunts of my childhood earth seemed a desert i was bound to traverse seeking to find the old familiar faces friend of my bosom thou more than a brother why were not thou born in my father's dwelling so might we talk of the old familiar faces for some they have died and some they have left me and some are taken from me all are departed all all are gone the old familiar faces.

For the ones who get it done.

who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find thee sitting careless on a granary floor thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep drowsed with the fume of poppies while thy hook spares the next swath and all its twined flowers and sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook or by a cider press with patient look thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours where are the songs of spring ay where are they think not of them thou hast thy music too while barred clouds bloom the soft dying day and touch the stubble plains with rosy hue then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn among the river sallows borne aloft or sinking as the light wind lives or dies and full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn hedge-crickets sing and now with treble soft the redbreast whistles from a garden croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies ode on melancholy no no go not to lethe neither twist wolf's bane tight-rooted for its poisonous wine nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed by nightshade ruby grape of proserpine make not your rosary of yew berries nor let the beetle nor the death moth be your mournful psyche nor the downy owl a partner in your sorrow's mysteries for shade to shade will come too drowsily and drown the wakeful anguish of the soul but when the melancholy fit shall fall sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud that fosters the droop headed flowers all and hides the green hill in an april shroud then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose or on the rainbow of the salt sand wave or on the wealth of globed peonies or if thy mistress some rich anger shows imprison her soft hand and let her rave and feed deep deep upon her peerless eyes 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 aye in the very temple of delight veiled melancholy has her sovereign 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 end of poem this recording is in the public domain ah what can ail thee wretched wight alone and palely loitering the sedge is withered 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 fairy'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 fairy's song 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 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 who 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 End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

when i have fears that i may cease to be before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain before high-piled books in charactery hold like rich garners the full ripened grain when i behold upon the night's starred 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 fairy 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 the old familiar faces where are they gone the old familiar faces i had a mother but she died and left me died prematurely in a day of horrors all all are gone the old familiar faces i have had playmates i have had companions in my days of childhood in my joyful school days all all are gone the old familiar faces i have been laughing i have been carousing drinking late sitting late with my bosom cronies all all are gone the old familiar faces i loved a love once fairest among women closed are her doors on me i must not see her all all are gone the old familiar faces i have a friend a kinder friend has no man like an ingrate i left my friend abruptly left him to muse on the old familiar faces ghost-like i paced round the haunts of my childhood earth seemed a desert i was bound to traverse seeking to find the old familiar faces friend of my bosom thou more than a brother why were not thou born in my father's dwelling so might we talk of the old familiar faces for some they have died and some they have left me and some are taken from me all are departed all all are gone the old familiar faces.

And that was one that might have scraped the lower regions of the indie chart, as we used to call it.

But, yeah, made an entirely orchestral album in 1984 called Without Mercy that was based very much on the Keats poem, La Belle Dame, Son Merci.

And, you know, that was probably his fourth album.

And I remember that coming out and thinking, oh, this is really, really beautiful.

This recording is in the public domain.

La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats, read for LibriVox.org. 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 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 looked 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 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's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who 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.

End of poem.

ah what can ail thee wretched wight alone and palely loitering the sedge is withered 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 fairy'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 fairy's song 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 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 who 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

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

end of poem this recording is in the public domain

ah what can ail thee wretched wight alone and palely loitering the sedge is withered 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 fairy'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 fairy's song 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 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 who 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

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.