The Story
of Saville
He sought the room where her laugh and song had made the obscurity bright,
And gazed on trifles familiar and dear to the touch if not to the sight,—
Her bird chirped low in its shining cage, the fish gleamed gay in the globe,
And careless it lay on the rich divan, her rosy and silvery robe,—
Yes, she herself would be here anon—where else should she be?—but yet—
Surely the hour was passing—had passed—the hour she had set
To return—Good God! he was stifling, meshed in a strangling net!
They brought him a note. “Dear Kyrle, Dear Love, Briefly and plain must I write,
Nor tax God’s last best gift to you, the peerless blessing of sight,—
They who shall give you this letter will tell you wherefore it must be
That you and I are severed nor meet till we meet by the jasper sea.
I had meant to leave you another way,—but I could not! my aim would have missed
The head that your hands had benisoned, the bosom your lips had kissed,—
