What Is There In Thee,

The Air Is All Softness.

But The Rose Leaves Herself Upon The Brier, For Winds To Kiss And Grateful Bees To Feed.

I Have Nothing To Speak Of But My Self-and What Can I Say But What I Feel.

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!

Faded The Flower And All Its Budded Charms,faded The Sight Of Beauty From My Eyes,faded The Shape Of Beauty From My Arms,faded The Voice, Warmth, Whiteness, Paradise!vanishd Unseasonably