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Keats put it best.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched Wighton, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched Wighton, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched Wighton, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched Wighton, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.
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