La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad

John Keats

1795 to 1821

Poem Image
Track 1

Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.

Easy Mode - Auto check enabled
       Full beautiful—a faery's child,
The squirrel's granary is full,
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
They cried—'La Belle Dame sans Merci
       Alone and palely loitering?
       On the cold hill's side.
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
The sedge has withered from the lake,
       And made sweet moan
I saw pale kings and princes too,
       Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
       And there she wept and sighed full sore,
       And honey wild, and manna-dew,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
I met a lady in the meads,
I see a lily on thy brow,
       And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
       And no birds sing.
       A faery's song.
       Fast withereth too.
       With horrid warning gapèd wide,
       And no birds sing.
And I awoke and found me here,
       So haggard and so woe-begone?
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
       'I love thee true'.
       And her eyes were wild.
She looked at me as she did love,
       And the harvest's done.
The latest dream I ever dreamt
I made a garland for her head,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
She took me to her Elfin grot,
       And nothing else saw all day long,
And this is why I sojourn here,
       With kisses four.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
She found me roots of relish sweet,
       Alone and palely loitering,
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And sure in language strange she said—
       Thee hath in thrall!'
I set her on my pacing steed,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
       And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
       With anguish moist and fever-dew,
       On the cold hill side.