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La Belle Dame sans Merci
1
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
2
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full
And the harvest’s done.
3
I see a lily on thy brow.
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
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