La Belle Dame Sans Merci read by Ben Whishaw

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered 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. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fevered hue, And on thy cheeks 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 made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone. She looked 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 sidelong would she bend And sing a fairy song. She found me roots of reddish sweet, And honey wild and manna due, And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true. She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses fore. And there she lulled me asleep, 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. 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-side. And this is why I sadgeon here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.