And so the seasons kept their round;
Yet still old Morgan went and came
From cabin door to forest dim,
Through wold of snows, through wood of flame,
Through golden Indian-summer days,
Hung round in soft September haze,
And no man cross'd or question'd him.
Nay, there was that in his stern air
That held e'en these rude men aloof:
None came to share the broad-built roof