The Mysterious Affliction of the Knight-at-Arms
La Belle Dame sans Merci O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is 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.

Pianeer