The Story
of Saville
V.
Week after week slipped billowy by into the gulfy past,
And the silvery beryl of each day’s wave broke at Kyrle’s feet and upcast
Flotsam of Indian broideries, spices, and pearls of Ceylon,
Sandalwood Araby sweet, and myrrh, and fagots of cinnamon,
And strewing the sterile waste beach of his life became as a godsend thereon.
The timid grace of the lady birch, the gnarls of the oak, she told,
How the warrior pines stood stark against the sunset’s daffodil gold,
And the sinuous slopes of the distant hills were but as a banner unscrolled,
Tawny and russet and purple twined, dotted with orbs of jet
Where a sturdy thorn or a lichened rock was into the fabric set,
And often she pictured a mother and babes, a tranquil domestic scene
Behind the rubious cordial glow of a casement’s coppery sheen,
And once when the sky occidental was paly translucentest green,
