The Story
of Saville
The child of himself and of Love,—deep love for his race and his art,
And for whatsoever of good and pure in this our being hath part,—
And then, while he gazed exalted and rapt, perceiving the glory-rays
Stream meteor-like from the picture and merge in an opaline haze,
Sudden the haze was a thunder-cloud, all gashed and fretted with fire,
And the wind shrieked loud through his chamber, bellowing higher and higher,
And a knell as of death everlasting was knolled from a neighboring spire.
And the cloud rolled sulphurous into his brain, and the fire gnawed into his eyes,
And the tigerish wind whirled round and round, spiralling dervish-wise,
And tore into tatters the visual nerve, in its terrible fiery grind,—
And the steeple carillon lost its chime and tolled but the one word,—“Blind!”
Well, it had happened ages ago, in the days that preceeded the flood,
So it seemed to Kyrle, with his strong hand lax and sluggish his galloping blood,
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