The Story
of Saville
Like apple-tree buds ere the mid-May’s kiss quickens them, tender and keen,
She told how a trio of cloudy shapes, dripping with blood and wine,
Drifted o’er the horizon’s rim, lurid as almandine,
Huddled and hunched and wizened, like the sisters three in Macbeth,
And one was Failure and one was Fear, and one was a Prayer for death,—
But an airy knight pricked over the plain and he vanquished them all at a breath,
And the conqueror’s colors were caught and tossed, and up to the zenith rolled,
And a legion sang of his victory like the morning stars of old.
And once she came through a shuddering storm, braving the eddying whirl
Of the snow-grains sown by a prodigal hand, and walked for a space with Kyrle,
And clung to his arm, half womanly guide, and half but a frivolous girl,
And said ’twas as if they were walking alone, they two, in a vast white pearl,
Where radiant nacre-gleams of pink traversed the edelweiss hue,
But never a satyr’s hoof was heard nor an Oread’s laugh rang through,
