Lulled by La Belle Dame Sans Merci he lies

In the bare wood below the blackening hill.

The plough drives nearer now, the shadow flies

Past him across the plain, but he lies still.

Long since the rust its gardens here has planned,

Flowering his armour like an autumn field.

From his sharp breast-plate to his iron hand

A spider’s web is stretched, a phantom shield.

When footsteps pound the turf beside his ear

Armies pass through his dream in endless line,

And one by one his ancient friends appear;

They pass all day, but he can make no sign.

When a bird cries within the silent grove

The long-lost voice goes by, he makes to rise

And follow, but his cold limbs never move,

And on the turf unstirred his shadow lies.

But if a withered leaf should drift

Across his face and rest, the dread drops start

Chill on his forehead. Now he tries to lift

The insulting weight that stays and breaks his heart.