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Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl;
Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know,
Not longer than the May-fly's small fan-horns;
There may not be one dimple on her hand,
And freckles many! Ah! a careless nurse,
In haste to teach the little thing to walk,
May have crumpt up a pair of Dian's legs,
And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck.


The stranger lighted from his steed,

And ere he spake a word
He seized my lady's lily hand,

And kiss'd it all unheard.

The stranger walk'd into the hall,

And ere he spake a word
He kiss'd my lady's cherry lips,
And kiss'd 'em all unheard.

The stranger walk'd into the bower,-

But my lady first did go,-
Aye hand in hand into the bower
Where my lord's roses blow.

My lady's maid had a silken scarf

And a golden ring had she,
And a kiss from the stranger, as off he went

Again on his fair palfrey.

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Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl !
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine eyes,
And let me breathe into the happy air
That doth enfold and touch thee all about,
Vows of my slavery, my giving up,
My sudden adoration, my great love!


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WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest 's done.



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 look'd 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 sidelóng would she bend, 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 wept and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dream'd- ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's 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's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake

And no birds sing.



“I was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds, by the beauty of the morning operating on a sense of idleness. I have not read any books the morning said I was right. I had no idea but of the morning, and

the thrush said I was right, seeming to say-(Letter to Reynolds, Feb., 1818)



THOU whose face hath felt the Winter's

wind, Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars! To thee the spring will be a harvest time. O thou whose only book has been the light Of supreme darkness, which thou feddest on Night after night, when Phoebus was away! To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn. O fret not after knowledge. I have none, And yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge! I have none, And yet the evening listens. He who saddens At thought of idleness cannot be idle, And he's awake who thinks himself asleep."

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HERE'S the Poet? show him! show him,

Muses nine! that I may know him.
'Tis the man who with a man
Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan,

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