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'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 sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed-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 gapéd 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.

JOHN KEATS

SONG

A

FAIRY band are we

In fairy-land;

Singing march we, hand in hand;

Singing, singing all day long;

(Some folk never heard a fairy song).

Singing, singing,

When the merry thrush is swinging

On a springing spray;

Or when the witch that lives in gloomy caves And creeps by night among the graves

Calls a cloud across the day;

Cease we never our fairy song,
March we ever along, along,
Down the dale, or up the hill,
Singing, singing still.

ALFRED NOYES

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,

They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs

All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and grey

He's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses.

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;

When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,