SONNET TO FANNY. I CRY your mercy-pity-love!-aye, love! One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall, SONNET TO GEORGE KEATS: WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. BROTHER belov'd if health shall smile again, Of sweet content and thy pleas'd eye may speak E E Were the attempt! Yet kindest friends while o'er My couch ye bend, and watch with tenderness The being whom your cares could e'en restore, From the cold grasp of Death, say can you guess The feelings which these lips can ne'er express; Feelings, deep fix'd in grateful memory's store. La Belle Dame sans Merci. I. AH, what can ail thee, wretched wight, The sedge is wither'd from the lake, 2. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, And the harvest's done. 3. I see a lilly on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; Fast withereth too. 4. I met a lady in the meads. Full beautiful, a faery's child; |