Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/256

240

 Yet—as all things mourn awhile
 * At fleeting blisses;

Let us too; but be our dirge
 * A dirge of kisses.


 * 1817.

 

can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
 * Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd 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 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 beautiful—a faery's child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,
 * And her eyes were wild. 