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Last Autumn we were four, and travelled far With Phœbe in her golden plenilune, O’er stubble-fields where sheaves of harvest boon Stood slanted. Many a clear and stedfast star Twinkled its radiance thro’ crisp-leaved beeches, Over the farm to which, with snatches rare Of ancient ballads, songs and saucy speeches, We 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.