The Story
of Saville
And their kindest word for the fluttering shape is “Horrible monster, avaunt!”
But when into Kyrle’s existence blank, arid as African sands,
Into the barrenness marred and vexed by alien tongues and hands,
An angel’s voice rang heavenly high, and a star in his pathway fell,
Welcomer ’twas to the lonely man than water in nethermost hell.
He troubled no more for his future weal than violets do in May,
For steadily, softly gleamed the star; sufficient from day to day
It was to hearken and ponder the words the Fairy Saville would say,
Though ever he questioned his dubious heart, “Can this great miracle be,—
Does this magnificent passion-flower blossom alone for me?
Or hath she served an apprenticeship and gilded her fancy’s pen
Coldly dipping it, artisan-wise, in the blood of a score of men?”—
But soon these petty misgivings fled,—what mattered it if she had won
