The Story
of Saville
The city’s din was heard no more, and all the world was fair,
For he thought that mayhap in a purer air a Gilead-grace might be,
And God might somehow permit him to breathe the beauty he could not see.
When he had forced his hesitant feet to traverse a mile or so
Of street that merged in a country road, its ruts all softened with snow,
They came to a widely sloping space and lofty ancestral trees
That bowed in a stately welcome under a gentle breeze,
And the lad pushed open a high arched gate and boldly leading him through
Guided the man to a rustic bench screened by a sturdy yew.
“Leave me here for an hour,” said Kyrle, and when he was quite alone
Sat in a hopeless silence with a face like a carven stone,
Though once he smiled at a thought, and the smile more pitiful was than a groan,
For scarce was it matter for mirth, how his mind would circling rehearse
