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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R.B. SHERIDAN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON ARABELLA STUART by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS EPIGRAM: 118. ON GUT by BEN JONSON UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES [MAY 10, 1863] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON RUINS OF CORINTH by ANTIPATER OF SIDON MIRTH by EDITH COURTENAY BABBITT |