The Story
of Saville
With a horror of any monstrosity rank in the smile of the sun!
But to resume: This lesson, O friend, God grant thou hast long ago learned,—
No blossom that springs in our weedy path is small enough to be spurned,—
Is it a gold-graven chalice of wine, the cup of thy present delight,
Or only an oak-leaf filled from a spring, dripping with diamonds white?
Drink thou as if it were proffered of gods, e’en as the draught were thy last,—
To-morrow mayhap the water and wine and the sweet strong thirst will have passed!
Came a day when Saville saw ’twas over, saw it too cruelly plain,
The months that had been a restoring lull ’twixt gusts of repining and pain,
As an eglantine scent blown over a brook ’mid dashes of August rain,
As the noontide rest of two wayworn gipsies hid in a leafy lane,—
For seeking out Kyrle in his room one day she found him asleep in a chair,
The westering rays on his handsome face and bronzing the brown of his hair,
