Ghosts by a lake

O what can ail thee, knights-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

What ails thee, brave sirs?

What ails thee? You are all dead men!

The sun is sinking in the west;

A chill wind blows from the north.

There’s nothing for it but to

lie without breath or motion

It’s time to go, gentlemen.

I’ve no more sorrow to bring

Than does the lance I brandish

Upon the bended arm

That points at the North Star.

O say can you see, by the naked eye,

The men you left behind you dead,

Lying in the grass?

Yes, I see them well.

Can you hear their lament?

It will rise and fall, Like a sob, like a sob,

Like the sigh of a gentle breeze,

Until God calls them home.