The Story
of Saville
XII.
Our life is a triplicate twisted cord of gray of and of gold and of white,—
The gray is the strand of the body and sensuous subtle delight,
The gold is the intellectual force, Jovian in triumph and might,
And the essence astatic, ethereal, eternal, that is the filament white,—
And none on the low brown earth there be so wholly of white and gold,
So rapt in unperishing verities on heights of Siberian cold,
So saturate with conviction, so pierced with truth icicle-keen,
As to cast the servitude utterly off of pleasure in things terrene,—
And Kyrle, lapped soft in a luxury he never had known or had dreamed,
Grew half content for a little space with the things of this world and seemed
To drowse in uxorious slothful fields, lotosed, Lethean-streamed.
And Saville was the sweetest of ministrants; the scheme of her life was full plain
To her sight; she but lived for this man; her fathers had garnered the grain
