The Story
of Saville
Men swear that they love us for mind or soul, and haply they think they do,
But the veriest dairymaid milking her cow knows it is wholly untrue;
Surely, plain women are sometimes loved; but Love is a wizard so kind
That he glamours and gilds the thing beloved, and causeth his servant to find
In his choice the graces of Hebe, Minerva, and Venus combined!
O friend! think never to please a woman by praising her housewife’s thrift,
Her spiritual fervor and zeal for God, her rythmic or musical gift,—
Say rather you like the shape of the ear, or the eyelid’s languorous lift!
Saville was enwrapped in a silken robe, woven of delicate pink,
All branched with lilies of silver, petalling link into link,
Fair as the blush of the peach in May, and silver and pink were her feet,
And her body was framed of a lily’s curves, silverly white and sweet,
And her hair was a glimmering golden mist, the aureole of a saint,
