The Story
of Saville
A serpentish feminine creature, compounded of lures and of lies,
Void of the commonest honesty even, false to his helpless eyes,—
Strange! that tonight, next week, next month, or when fifty years had gone by,
Whether she chid or caressed him or laughed, or mourned with a bitter sad cry,
He perforce must debate the thing in his heart, “But is this true now, or a lie?”—
Why, he had trusted her as his God, and lo! she had bought him and sold,
Made him a chattel, a page, a toy to deck with her chains of gold,
A Delilah’s dupe,—’twere better to be mould in the churchyard mould!
Ah, well! myself, I have pity alone for the women who fail of the right,—
I know not in faith how it is we are made so the black seemeth often the white,—
We aspire to a dew-drop’s clarity, to a resolute self-control,
To face the world—why, the woman lives not who even can face her own soul!
Ah, frail is our tenure of sanity, safety, serenity, calm,
