La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad
John Keats (1819)

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 thy brow,
          With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
          Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
          Full beautiful-a faery'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 language strange 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
          Thee hath in thrall!'

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.

Sed non satiata
Charles Baudelaire (1857)

Bizarre déité, brune comme les nuits,
Au parfum mélangé de musc et de havane,
Oeuvre de quelque obi, le Faust de la savane,
Sorcière au flanc d'ébène, enfant des noirs minuits,

Je préfère au constance, à l'opium, au nuits,
L'élixir de ta bouche où l'amour se pavane;
Quand vers toi mes désirs partent en caravane,
Tes yeux sont la citerne où boivent mes ennuis.

Par ces deux grands yeux noirs, soupiraux de ton âme,
Ô démon sans pitié! verse-moi moins de flamme;
Je ne suis pas le Styx pour t'embrasser neuf fois,

Hélas! et je ne puis, Mégère libertine,
Pour briser ton courage et te mettre aux abois,
Dans l'enfer de ton lit devenir Proserpine!