The traveler finds lodgings in the hills.
They’re knocking down the chestnuts to make paste;
Boys pluck wild mushrooms by their velvet gills,
That night’s risotto’s musky with their taste.
A dark-haired lady dines out on the terrace
Where the September sun strikes through her wine.
She’s in her sixties, beautiful, an heiress,
The brown leaves fragrant on the sunlit vine.
They saw each other yesterday up there,
Climbing the marble mountain that now gleams
In brilliant white-gold in the evening air;
She figured casually in his dreams.
Did he once know her in that other life?
And was she his inheritor? His wife?
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