The Sedge Has Withered from the Lake Painting by James McCormack

The Sedge Has Withered from the Lake

by James McCormack

Canvas Print

$97

Framed Print

$115

Art Print

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Poster

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Metal Print

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Acrylic Print

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Wood Print

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Tapestry

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Throw Pillow

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Fleece Blanket

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Duvet Cover

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Shower Curtain

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Bath Towel

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Ornament

$14

Jigsaw Puzzle

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Tote Bag

$43

Weekender Tote Bag

$60

Zip Pouch

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Portable Battery Charger

$57

Greeting Card

$15

Spiral Notebook

$24

Sticker

$5.00

iPhone Case

$44

Beach Towel

$53

Round Beach Towel

$95

Weekender Tote Bag

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Coffee Mug

$18

Men's Clothing

$33

Women's Clothing

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Youth Clothing

$29

Toddler Clothing

$27

Baby Clothing

$31

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Price

Not Specified

Dimensions

42.000 x 29.700 cm.

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Title

The Sedge Has Withered from the Lake

Artist

James McCormack

Medium

Painting - Acrylic On Paper

Description

The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

("La Belle Dame sans Merci" - Keats)

Full series is in La Belle Dame Sans Merci Collection

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 lullèd 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 gapèd 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.