The Story
of Saville
’Tis said that not overmuch do they speak, lovers long happily wed,—
Nay, ’twere superfluous,—where is the need? since all that the one would have said
The other discerns in a tangent tone, a sigh, or a lifted lash,
Whose hidden intent doth cycle and spread as the waves from a pebble’s plash,—
But not as yet could this pair dispense with the word’s mere pleasure and need,
Nor in silence commune, which accomplishment is a matter of lustrums indeed,
And Kyrle, sense-hampered and shorn of sight, delighted forever to hark
Saville, like Elaine, embroidering the velvety shield of the dark,—
She told how a race serenely pure dwelt in some fury-fed spark,
How a demon-brood infested the whitest orb of the glittering arc,—
How the wandering Pleiad was she herself, who had long, long ages ago
Resolved to dip to the dear dim earth, rocking so tiny below,
And had fearfully waited where comets whirred and planets loomed monstrous and grim,
Waiting the silvery summons of Love,—waiting for him, for him!
