O What Can Ail Thee...

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The thoughts have withered from thy brain
And they have lost their sting.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and aloof from life?
The harpy’s chalice’s overfull
And the soul’s in strife.
I see a scar shining from thy brow
By harshness torn and fever-dew,
The blade: it swingeth from thy neck,
Thy tongue: fast withered too.
I let my notions in the past
A prey of sense — a prey of mind
My foot is lame, my head is drunk
And mine eyes shine blind.
And so I lullèd me asleep
Though never dreamt, though never woke,
Into the latest sleep I ever slept
In the numb life’s cloak.
And this is why I sojourn here
So lone and palely loitering,
While thoughts have withered from thy brain
And they have lost their sting.
I let my notions in the past…