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LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.

V.

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.

VI.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A fairy song.

VII.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said,

"I love thee true."

VIII.

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.

IX.

And there she lulled me asleep;

And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dreamed

On the cold hill's side.

BABY'S SHOES.

X.

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!"

XI.

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.

XII.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

BABY'S SHOES.

O THOSE little, those little blue shoes,
Those shoes that no little feet use!

O the price were high

That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes!

JOHN KEATS.

BABY'S SHOES.

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good will,

Years since, grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And O, since that baby slept,

So hushed, how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,

And o'er them thought and wept !

For they mind her for evermore

Of a patter along the floor;
And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees,

With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,

There babbles from chair to chair

A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place,

With its little gold curls of hair.

Then O, wonder not that her heart

From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start!

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

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THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly,
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family,

Wipe those poor lips of hers,

Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,

Her fair auburn tresses,
Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

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