Around a corner coming, said the book,

And coming toward him certainly, was death.

The page told how the yellow maple shook,

And said he did not even catch his breath,

But kept on walking. Almost out of mind,

The girl was dreaming in a sunny chair.

Their love was late, a flower I hoped to find

Opening on the autumn or the winter air,

And now, the story more than half un-read,

The next page over I would find him dead.

Not yet, I said, and not so suddenly,

And closed the book. Forever in that light

He walks alive beneath the yellow tree.

She dreams and waits. And I know I was right.