Guido Savella.
63
Leaned from the deep-cut windows, and for sport,
Shook down the rings of her gold-coloured hair.
Shook down the rings of her gold-coloured hair.
Change followed change; the delicate shades of grief
Blend imperceptibly, and he who watched
His sorrow as a secret trust, felt not
How every day took something from its keenness.
He scarce remembered when he first had paused
To listen to Francesca's pleading tones,
Or smile when Guido with superior wisdom
Schooled his child sister. He would linger now
With a pleased eye before the glowing pictures
Lining his galleries, and now the boy
Rode forth at even by his father's side,
And when Savella paced the palace gardens
Francesca lay upon his breast, her arms
Clasped on his neck, and her ungathered hair
Sweeping the shoulder where her cheek lay pillowed.
Blend imperceptibly, and he who watched
His sorrow as a secret trust, felt not
How every day took something from its keenness.
He scarce remembered when he first had paused
To listen to Francesca's pleading tones,
Or smile when Guido with superior wisdom
Schooled his child sister. He would linger now
With a pleased eye before the glowing pictures
Lining his galleries, and now the boy
Rode forth at even by his father's side,
And when Savella paced the palace gardens
Francesca lay upon his breast, her arms
Clasped on his neck, and her ungathered hair
Sweeping the shoulder where her cheek lay pillowed.
She had an English face, but, oh, not hers
Whose memory yet upon Savella's heart
Lay, a receding shadow! In her glance
Whose memory yet upon Savella's heart
Lay, a receding shadow! In her glance
