The La Belle Dame sans Merci (Modern Translation)

Translated by Asa Montreaux

Written by John Keats

 What’s wrong with you, lone wandering knight,

So pale, so lost, beneath this sky?

The reeds are brittle by the lake,

And every bird has stopped its cry.

What’s haunting you, my weary friend,

You look worn thin, your face so drained,

The fields are bare, the harvest's done,

The squirrels’ stores are safely claimed.

There’s a ghost-white bloom upon your brow,

Your skin is damp with fever’s trace,

And in your cheeks, the fading red,

Is vanishing without a grace.

I met a girl out on the plain,

Too beautiful to quite seem real,

Her hair flowed wild, her footsteps light,

Her restless eyes refused to heal.

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I wove a crown of flowers bright,

With braided bands, and perfume sweet,

She looked at me like love itself,

And whispered words soft and discreet.

I set her on my steady horse,

And saw no other soul that day,

She leaned toward me, humming low,

A song that stole my breath away.

She found me roots with hidden taste,

And honey dripping fresh with dew,

And in a voice so strange, she swore—

‘I love you, I am true.’

She led me to a shadowed place,

A hollow carved beneath the stone,

And there she wept, and sighed so deep,

I kissed her eyes—wild, unknown.

She sang me into heavy sleep,

And dreams crept in, sharp-edged and wide,

The last dream I will ever have,

Upon this cold, bare hillside.

I saw pale kings, their faces lost,

And ghostly soldiers, drained and worn,

They cried—‘The cruel, merciless girl,

Has left your heart forlorn!’

Their starving mouths were cracked and wide,

Their hollow warnings filled the air,

And when I woke, I found myself,

Alone, and stranded there.

And that’s the reason why I roam,

So pale, so alone, I drift, I stray,

The lake is dead, the birds are gone,

And I am suffering from ache.