The Story
of Saville
To life and its commoner uses, its hard mathematical facts?
That song of Saville’s—she had suffered, be sure; one could hearken the ruddy slow drip
From a heart which relentless Fate had crushed in mortal implacable grip,—
Ah, well! we are born to suffer,—we are bound in an iron spiked wheel
And roll down a slope precipitous till the senses sicken and reel,
And haply their sorrows are lighter and less who can sing what their fellows but feel!
“Thanks for your song, my sweet,” he said, “it quickens and quivers with truth,—
And yet I must marvel a woman like you, dowered with beauty and youth,
Should have girded at loneliness blank yet brief, nor have guessed it was certain to end,—
Did you not know God in His own good time would happy deliverance send?”
The liquid plaint of the lapsing waves was the only sound for a space,
Then Saville: “My beauty you never have named till now,—shall I dexterous trace
