Ah what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge has wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing. Ah what can ail thee, wretched wight, 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 … Lire la suite La Belle Dame sans Merci – John Keats