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 squirrelÕs granary is full,
       And the harvestÕs 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 beautifulÑa faeryÕs child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
       And her eyes were wild.


(Keats! KEats!)