La Belle Chat Sans Merci
O what can ail thee, cat-with-claws,
Alone and darkly stalking?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing
O what can ail thee, cat-with-claws.
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose.
Fast withereth too.
I met a feline in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
-John Keats
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