O WHAT CAN AIL THEE NIGHT AT ARMS?

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,