Geoffrey Chaucer
Charles of Orleans
Sir Phillip Sidney
John Lyly
William Shakespeare
Ben Jonson
Christopher Marlowe
Sir Walter Ralegh
John Donne
Michael Drayton
Thomas Ford
George Wither
Robert Herrick
Edmund Waller
Andrew Marvell
Thomas Stanley
John Wilmot
Aphra Behn
John Dryden
Sir Charles Sedley
Sir Matthew Prior
Alexander Pope
Lady Mary Montagu
Franny Greville
Walter Savage Landor
Thomas Hood
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Lord Byron
William Blake
George Crabbe
William Wordsworth
John Clare
Robert Browning
Lord Tennyson
Emily Bronte
Matthew Arnold
Christina Rossetti
Thomas Hardy
Robert Bridges
Alfred Edward Housman

Romantic Poems throughout the ages.

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John Keats

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

`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 cheek 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 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 dreamed
On the cold hill's side.

`I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried-Ma belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee 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.'

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