He recollected the day. He had gone off to join some friends for a week’s hunting, leaving her in a quiet mountain inn.
“And she was lonely of heart—poor little wifie!”
“He turned him at the maple tree,
To wave a fond farewell to me.
The burning branches touched his head,
Tawny and ash, and dappled red.
Behind him, in still fold on fold—
As painters lay with leaves of gold
The ground on which they mean to trace