Here's my excuse: I have an English Literature exam on Monday. I need to brush up on my Enduring Love knowledge, because the exam question could be on ANY of the chapters in the book, I have to pretty much know the book off by heart.
That's on top of an insanely intimate detail about some Keats and Rossetti poetry. I have to admit that Keats was an astounding poet, it's such a shame that his contemporaries were so derisive towards him. I bet they turn in their graves every time someone reads Keats and ignores their own work, I'd argue that in the modern world John Keats is much more well-known than Lord Byron and Percy Shelley -- but they were three of the most important poets in the Romantic movement and alive at the same time.
Read Keats. La Belle Dame Sans Merci is, as far as I can recall, my favourite poem. It's not long. In fact, I'll type it out for you.
La Belle Dame sans Merci
' O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd 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 fever-dew;
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.'
' I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery'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 look'd 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 faery'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 sigh'd full sore;
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.
' And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dream'd - 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;
Who 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's side.
' And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.'
Now, this is from The Oxford book of English Verse from the Oxford Clarendon press 1912, chosen and edited by Arthur Quiller-Couch. Needless to say, a very old and worn book. However, I noticed that this copy of the poem is formatted differently than the copy that my Literature teacher gave to us. So, for the fact that the book was compiled, almost, a century ago (Wow! Almost a whole century!) I have reverted the text to fit the older, and arguably more strict, version.
I could tell you quite a lot about this poem alone. I won't. But I could. I won't spoil it for you. It's quite rude for someone to shove their own impressions of a poem down your throat if you've only read a poem once.
Read, and enjoy.
No comments:
Post a Comment