September 2011
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La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
I. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
II. 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.
III. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth...
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