70
Guido Savella.
Glanced wavering o'er his temples, and the dew
Came readily to his brow. He would speak low,
Pacing alone, and sometimes in his glance
There crouched an indistinct terror, or awhile
He seemed to sleep, and but remembered, waking,
A light hand in his own, soft lips that touched
His hot veins and they cooled. But this was dreaming;
And when ere long Francesca came, he wound
His arm about her waist, and with a smile
Talked as she loved to hear him, playfully,
Yet mingling wisdom with his sportive words;
Sending athwart the current of deep thought
Fleets of grotesque, capricious fantasies,
As boys float mimic barks across a river.
Yet even then the delicate chain of fancy
Would seem to snap asunder, and he sought
Bewildered the lost links. But knowing not
Their mother's history, she who listened deemed
Only that constant toil had vexed his brain,
And smiled, and soothed him, and with earnest wiles
Chased back the gathering gloom. If now they named
Savella's wife, his very lips turned white.
Came readily to his brow. He would speak low,
Pacing alone, and sometimes in his glance
There crouched an indistinct terror, or awhile
He seemed to sleep, and but remembered, waking,
A light hand in his own, soft lips that touched
His hot veins and they cooled. But this was dreaming;
And when ere long Francesca came, he wound
His arm about her waist, and with a smile
Talked as she loved to hear him, playfully,
Yet mingling wisdom with his sportive words;
Sending athwart the current of deep thought
Fleets of grotesque, capricious fantasies,
As boys float mimic barks across a river.
Yet even then the delicate chain of fancy
Would seem to snap asunder, and he sought
Bewildered the lost links. But knowing not
Their mother's history, she who listened deemed
Only that constant toil had vexed his brain,
And smiled, and soothed him, and with earnest wiles
Chased back the gathering gloom. If now they named
Savella's wife, his very lips turned white.
