Last Autumn we were four, and travelled far With Phoebe in her golden plenilune, O'er stubble-fields where sheaves of harvest boon Stood slanted. Many a clear and steadfast star Twinkled its radiance thro' crisp-leaved beeches, Over the farm to which, with snatches rare Of ancient ballads, songs, and saucy speeches, He hurried, happy mad. Then each had there A dove-eyed sister pining for him, four Fair ladies legacied with loveliness, Chaste as a group of stars, or lilies blown In rural nunnery. O God! Thy sore Strange ways expound. Two to the grave have gone Without apparent reason more or less. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...APPLES OF HESPERIDES by AMY LOWELL A DAY DREAM by EMILY JANE BRONTE A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S by ROBERT BROWNING GOD'S GRANDEUR by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE; SIX YEARS OLD by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |