“La Belle Dame sans Merci”: John Keats; poem and analysis.

La Belle Dame sans Merci -in Spanish: The beautiful lady without mercy— is a love poem by the English writer John Keats (1795-1821), composed in 1819; a dark period in the poet’s life, where illness, depression, and a conflictive relationship with the woman of his life, Fanny Brawne, were transferred to his works.

Love and death lurk in La Belle Dame sans Merci, and both under the sign of sacred femininity; that is, of the feminine principle of the universe, the primordial woman, capable of assuming the delicate form of fairies but also the fiery silhouette of the succubus, of Lamia, of the archetypal vampire.

The work is inspired by medieval poems and Celtic myths about cruel, cold, distant and manipulative fairies; representing here the poet’s concerns about the pain that love can produce, particularly the loss of freedom, jealousy, the desire for possession.

Although the metric of La Belle Dame sans Mercione of the most outstanding poems by John Keats, moves away from the classic structure of medieval ballads, preserving its essence, that dreamlike and repetitive quality that works like a mantra, a prayer, slowly leading us towards a twilight region of reason, an altered state of consciousness, where anything is possible.

Originally, La Belle Dame sans Merci was discarded for John Keats, who considered it inconsistent. Its preservation is due to the zeal of his brother, George, who encouraged him to publish it. Today it is considered one of the best poems of John Keats.

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La Belle Dame sans Merci.
The Fair Lady Without Pity, John Keats (1795-1821)

Oh! What sorrow besets thee, knight in arms,
pale and lonely wanderer?
The flowers of the lake are withered;
and no bird sings.

Oh! Why do you suffer, knight in arms,
so malicious and hurt?
The squirrel has filled his barn
and the harvest has already been saved.

I see a lily on your forehead,
bathed in anguish and the rain of fever,
and on your cheeks a suffering rose,
also withered before its time.

I found a lady in the meadow,
of consummate beauty, beautiful as a fairy daughter;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
his bewitching eyes.

I wove a crown for his head,
and bracelets and a perfumed belt.
She looked at me as if she loved me,
and he let out a sweet cry.

I put her on my docile steed,
and my eyes saw nothing outside of it that day;
well sitting in the chair
sang a fairy melody.

She revealed to me roots of delicate flavors,
and wild honey and heavenly dew,
and without a doubt in his strange language he told me:
I love you.

He took me to his enchanted grotto,
and there he wept and sighed sadly;
there I closed his wild eyes
his bewitching eyes, with my lips.

She made me sleep with her caresses
and there I dreamed (Ah, poor me!)
the last dream I ever dreamed
on the frozen slope of the mountain.

I saw pale kings, and also princesses,
and white warriors, white as death;
and they all exclaimed:
The belle dame sans merci has made you her slave!

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And I saw in the shadows his cold lips open
in terrible anticipation;
and here I woke up,
and I found myself on the frozen side of the mountain.

That is the reason why I wander,
wandering, pale and lonely;
Although the flowers of the lake are withered,
and no bird sings.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered 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 your brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on your cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a fairy’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 looked 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 strange language she said—
‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—’La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’

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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.

John Keats (1795-1821)

Gothic poems. I Poems by John Keats.

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