I am angry on behalf of Keats that this site has chosen to reproduce the bootleg version of his poem rather than the version that he wrote, edited, approved, and published in 1820. The bootleg version of an early draft of the poem wasn't published until sixty years after his death. Clearly it doesn't say all that Keats wanted it to say, otherwise he would not have changed it.
Out of respect for Keats, I offer here a fairly accurate rendering of the poem the way that Keats wanted it.
la belle Dame sans merci a ballad
-- by John Keats
(First published version/final version, 1820)
1 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
2 Alone and palely loitering;
3 The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
4 And no birds sing.
5 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
6 So haggard and so woe-begone?
7 The squirrel's granary is full,
8 And the harvest's done.
9 I see a lily on thy brow,
10 With anguish moist and fever dew;
11 And on thy cheek a fading rose
12 Fast withereth too.
13 I met a lady in the meads
14 Full beautiful, a faery's child;
15 Her hair was long, her foot was light,
16 And her eyes were wild.
17 I set her on my pacing steed,
18 And nothing else saw all day long;
19 For sideways would she lean, and sing
20 A faery's song.
21 I made a garland for her head,
22 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
23 She look'd at me as she did love,
24 And made sweet moan.
25 She found me roots of relish sweet,
26 And honey wild, and manna dew;
27 And sure in language strange she said,
28 I love thee true.
29 She took me to her elfin grot,
30 And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
31 And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
32 So kiss'd to sleep.
33 And there we slumber'd on the moss,
34 And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
35 The latest dream I ever dream'd
36 On the cold hill side.
37 I saw pale kings, and princes too,
38 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
39 Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
40 Hath thee in thrall!"
41 I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
42 With horrid warning gaped wide,
43 And I awoke, and found me here
44 On the cold hill side.
45 And this is why I sojourn here
46 Alone and palely loitering,
47 Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
48 And no birds sing.