And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word,
Like this the story ran:
Mark Lysle, a rich,
Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,
Long years agone, lived in that house[376] whose red
Roof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and though
You see a light, blue plume of smoke above
The chimney top, yet other hearts now sit
About the hearth and watch its glow, for that
Bright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died out