He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute, In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy." — John Keats

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.

The music, yearning like a God in pain.

She hurried at his words, beset with fears,

For there were sleeping dragons all around,

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears —

Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. —

In all the house was heard no human sound.

A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;

The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,

Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.