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I VII
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, She found me roots of relish sweet,
Alone and palely loitering? And honey wild, and manna dew;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And sure in language strange she
And no birds sing. said -
'I love thee true.'
II
VIII
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone? She took me to her elfin grot,
The squirrel's granary is full, And there she gazed, and sighed
And the harvest's done. deep,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
III So kiss'd to sleep.