O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The dragons they have all arrived
And no birds sing.

Hidden text

Just a little spin-off from the glow-worms game

In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster. The remains of this extensive wood are still to be seen at the noble seats of Wentworth, of Warncliffe Park, and around Rotherham. Here haunted of yore the fabulous Dragon of Wantley; and much was fought over until his far-flung brood bethought them of a reunion, and on that day in June the dragons arrived.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. In one of the obscurest quarters of London, and among haunts little loved by the gentlemen of the police, a thunder of dragons, evidently of the lowest orders, had just arrived.

It was love at first sight. The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain, he fell madly in love with him. And then the dragons arrived.

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. Then the dragons arrived.