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Yesterday's post about Lewis Carroll's "Jabberwocky", which used a form of hymn metre (three lines of more-or-less iambic tetrameter followed by a line of trimeter). Although it is indeed a nonsense poem, "Jabberwocky" is also a narrative poem, meaning one that tells a story. And all that talk of slaying monsters made me think of knights, making today's choice obvious (at least for me).

Today, one of my favorite short narrative poems, by the incomparable John Keats. It's called "La Belle Dame Sans Merci", by which Keats meant "the beautiful woman without pity/mercy" and not "the beautiful woman without thanks" - the title comes from a medieval French court poem by Alain Chartier. This lyric narrative poems tells a seemingly simple story in the form of a stylized folk ballad. In the first three stanzas, a speaker asks a woeful knight what's wrong, and the remainder of the poem is the knight's answer. I absolutely, flat-out adore this poem, which was part of the impetus for my own poem, "La Belle Dame Sans Regrets", which was written in response to a picture prompt posted by The Merry Sisters of Fate, based on a painting inspired by . . . well, by this Keats poem. I begin to tire of my circular digression, and will move straight to the poem:

La Belle Dame Sans Merci
by John Keats

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 sideways would she lean, 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 gazed and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
  With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep
  And there I dreamed— Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
  On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried— 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
  Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
  With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
  On the cold hill side.

And that is why I sojourn here,
  Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge has withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

Form: Each stanza contains four lines. Were you to number the lines 1-4, lines 2 & 4 rhyme. The first three lines in each stanza are roughly in iambic tetrameter (four iambic feet per line: taDUM taDUM taDUM taDUM), although sometimes Keats adds an extra syllable here or there, usually meaning that one of the feet has a third syllable, as in the third line of the final stanza: "Though the sedge has withered from the lake", which still has four poetic feet in the line: an anapest (tadaDUM) followed by three iambs (taDUM taDUM taDUM). In any case,

Today, a fairly lengthy poem. I hope that when you get a 10-15 minute window of time, you will come read this poem in its entirety, for it is a marvel of construction (written in accentual verse - two or four (sometimes three or five) stressed syllables per short line - and cleverly using rhyme throughout, although in no set pattern) and it tells a most marvelous (in pretty much all senses of that word) tale of two sisters, one of whom allows herself to be tempted by the goblin men and their lovely fruit, only to find herself wasting away. Can the other sister sort out how to save her? And what does this allegory mean?

I know several YA authors have been influenced by this story, including National Book Award nominee Laini Taylor, whose story "Goblin Fruit" in Lips Touch Three Times is inspired by Rossetti's poem and my friend Tessa Gratton, who wrote this inspired piece at Merry Sisters of Fate about it. I like Tess's summary and explanation quite a bit, and so will you, I think.

Goblin Market
by Christina Rossetti

Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries-
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries--
All ripe together
In summer weather--
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy;
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
Come buy, come buy."
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
"Lie close," Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"
"Come buy," call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
"O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men."
Lizzie covered up her eyes
Covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head,
And whispered like the restless brook:
"Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds' weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes."
"No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us."
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat's face,
One whisked a tail,
One tramped at a rat's pace,
One crawled like a snail,
One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry.
Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretched her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glen
Turned and trooped the goblin men,