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 lilly on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose