The Story
of Saville
Harsh, unbreathable, nettle-rough, suddenly was he aware
Of a footstep light yet resolute, a beautiful woman’s tread,
He knew by the keen unwonted thrill that over his senses sped,
The silken swish, the odor sweet, and stricken he bowed his head
Lest he be known for a sightless clod and all of his sorrow be read.
And so she passed, but again did turn, he knew though he could not see,
And drifted by as antelope-swift as downiest snow-flakes be,
And laid with an instant timorous touch some roses upon his knee,
And butterfly light and daintily still she fluttered upon her way,
“A rifle smoke blown through the woods for a moment,—a moment, but never to stay!”
And he snatched the clustered loveliness up, and sudden it seemed a part
Of his wretched life, like a dream of love in an old man’s withered heart,
A rosary dearer than beads of olive were ever to kneeling nun,
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