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...TO A WATERFOWL by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT FOR AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN (BY ANDREA MANTEGNA) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH WEIGHTS AND MEASURES, BY OUR OWN TOM DALY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THESE ENDURE by MARION H. ADDINGTON PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 76. YA WALI by EDWIN ARNOLD |