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SAVILLE
Crouched like a moribund lion, wounded, alone in his lair,
Bowed ’neath unbreakable fetters, choked with an iron despair,
Wearily, heavily ’ware of the clock's dull ponderous rune
Telling how hideous morn gives birth to misshapen foul noon,
Who yet wears a loveliness regal, a beauty transcendent and bright,
Compared to her utterless offspring, the Ethiop horror of night,
Kyrle sat, scarce caring to keep account of the hours and the days,
As a rock-spitted ship need reck never more of the wind and its ways—
Sat in his isolate chamber, lost in the clamant strange town
Where he had crept in the dark when his sun forever went down,
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