The Story
of Saville
To believe that my coming was aught to you,—I deemed that you would not have cared,—
I might have ribboned a note to the bench,—but alas! you could not read,—
And did you really linger till dark? and did you miss me indeed?
But I—I was threading the tangled maze of the city’s ravenous whirl,
And I gazed for an hour upon ‘Rupert’s Trust,’—and you, O friend! you are Kyrle!”
He mused, how small is the woman soul, how timid and trustless and frail,
Curious ever of pedigree and trivial confirming detail,
While he had not even requested her name, contented as yet but to dream
Of her as a dim mist-maiden, a goddess, gem-girdled, supreme,—
But it passed, this scornfulness fleeting, and the air seemed to dimple and dirl
Eolian-tender, mandolin-sweet, at the magical words, “You are Kyrle,”
Simple, sufficient, as if she had said in a homaging, honey-fraught tone,
“You are Cæsar,—unmastered, unrivalled,—our planet doth own
