68
Guido Savella.
Of riper years; and there remained no trace,
In the man's grand proportions, of the slight
And flexible outlines of the unformed child.
Men said his brain was overcharged with thought;
The blue veins branched distinctly on his temples,
His lips had lost their fulness, and the blood
Fled with hot haste unsummoned to his brow.
He had grown captious, difficult, unlike
His former self. The daylight parched him now,
The twilight chilled, and sleep to him was fever;
For he would wake half shrieking, and aroused,
Steal mantled forth into the quiet streets,
Shunning the moonbeams, starting in white fear
From the dim, cowering midnight at the base
Of pedestal and column. Early morn
Found him before his easel.
From without,
Through the looped curtains of his studio came
Faintly the stir of life, and far beneath,
The garden with its fountains, and dark groves,
And winding paths, stretched westward. The high walls
Were white and unadorned; the vaulted ceiling
In the man's grand proportions, of the slight
And flexible outlines of the unformed child.
Men said his brain was overcharged with thought;
The blue veins branched distinctly on his temples,
His lips had lost their fulness, and the blood
Fled with hot haste unsummoned to his brow.
He had grown captious, difficult, unlike
His former self. The daylight parched him now,
The twilight chilled, and sleep to him was fever;
For he would wake half shrieking, and aroused,
Steal mantled forth into the quiet streets,
Shunning the moonbeams, starting in white fear
From the dim, cowering midnight at the base
Of pedestal and column. Early morn
Found him before his easel.
From without,
Through the looped curtains of his studio came
Faintly the stir of life, and far beneath,
The garden with its fountains, and dark groves,
And winding paths, stretched westward. The high walls
Were white and unadorned; the vaulted ceiling
