Oh, what can ail thee, poet-man,
Alone and palely loitering?
"The wings are banished from the woods,
And no birds sing."
II.
Oh, what can ail thee, bird-lover,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
"The heronry no more is full,
And the cranes are flown."
III.
I see there's sorrow on thy brow,
At dawn's rose-flush, at eve's cool dew.
"Bird-song is gone from the garden rose,
And the field flowers too.
IV.
"I met a lady on the way,
Fell, beautiful, cold Fashion's child;
Her hair was golden, her plume was high,
And her eyes were wild.
V.
"She made a mixed plume for her head,
Of heron crest and aureole.
She looked at me as void of love,
And cold of soul.
VI.