I never wrote you a love song

somehow words could not express what I needed to say.

and so I never wrote you a love song

and now its much, much too late 'cause you've gone away



But I will build this monument

to remember all the love we once had

and I'll close my eyes and make it how it used to be

I swear I never stopped loving you with everything I am

and it hurts so much to think you stopped loving me

you stopped loving me...



So I wish I'd had written you a love song

and somehow you understood what it feels to be me

because the Angel loves the sprite forever

and does it unconditionally



But I will build this monument

to remember all the love we once had

and I'll close my eyes and make it how it used to be

I swear I never stopped loving you with everything I am

and it hurts so much to think you stopped loving me

you stopped loving me...



(excerpt from La Belle Dame Sans Merci by W.B. Keats - 1819)



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 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;

They cried--"La 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