La Belle Dame Sans Merci
Автор книги John Keats
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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 faery's child:
Her hair was long, her foot was ligh,
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.
