Bitter Chill

St Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censor old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

John Keats, "The Eve of Saint Agnes," l. 1-9, in John Keats: Everyman's Poetry (London: Orion, 1996).

All right, so it's not quite this cold in Auckland this morning, but it's not far off...

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La Belle Dame Sans Merci

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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 starv'd 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.
John Keats (1819), in John Keats, Everyman's Poetry series (London: Orion, 1996), 58-9.