The Story
of Saville
But Oh! to be back at sea, half starved, and of drenched in a sudden squall!”
Alas! for any who come to be post-graduates in the art
Of subtle and sympathetic search in the deeps of the human heart,
For Oh! they not so ravishing high, so thrillingly, tenderly low
Could sing had they not outlived the theme some dozen of years ago—
Alas! for them who clasp no hand, but an empty shrivelling glove,
And remember how sweet it was last year, how piercingly sweet to love—
And alas for the desolate souls who feel that the rosy boy lies hid,
Quiver and dimples and wandering wings, under a coffin lid!
But to my story. Kyrle, poor Kyrle, crept out of his smothering mood,
The vile cocoon the worms had spun of anguish and solitude,
And weak as an insect crawled about and struggled to find a light
Of hope or of faith or of anything sweet let into the fathomless night.
