The Story
of Saville
That were as a snivelling hypocrite’s prayers, a whining coward’s, who tries
To slaver himself with pretense of virtue and whiten him in God’s eyes!
A sound behind her, and Kyrle came in, and with her low call for a guide
He crossed the room with his slow soft step and sank on the couch at her side,
And belted her body within his embrace and pressed his clear ivory cheek
’Gainst hers—no, not that word no, no!—but barred with its baleful streak,
And murmured, “Saville, my wife, my queen—pardon the haste that could speak
Such tidings so blunt—’twas a glowing breeze and thou but a hyacinth weak,—
And hast thou a womanish fancy, love, that mayhap we might drift apart,
I having once more the armor and steed to enter the tourney of art,—
That I might grow careless of home and thee? Perish the thought, sweetheart!
There’s one fair thing in the world, Saville, that ever I long to limn,
That first shall dawn on my long, long dark and rise through the shadows dim,
