The Story
of Saville
He had chidden his lips for smiling, forbidden his blood to run,—
And now at the thought of breaking her bond, Kyrle’s heart, exuberant, wild,
Leapt as a cataract plunges o’er masses of granite up-piled,—
Sweet is a reckless beat in a pulse long glacier-gentle and mild!
Again did a master’s words come back in rippling mellifluous flow,
“Whither, O whither, my love, shall we flee for a sweet little summer or so?”
And he said, “The thorn-girded Princess arose and followed her lover,—but no!
You are hedged with a thousand conventional briers, Saville, and you dare not go,—
It is but a dream that we twain might wed and sweep in a swallow-like flight
Away for a roseate triple-mooned day, and then ere autumnal sad night
Slip back to our niches appointed and strait, and arm for the winter’s fight,
Yours, the hushing of peevish complaints, the filling of futile demands,
Mine, the patiently facing the dark and chafing the listless hands,—
