Our generation already is overpast, And they lovd legacy, Gerard, hath lain Coy in my home; as once thy heart was fain Of shelter, when Gods terror held thee fast In lifes wild wood at Beauty and Sorrow aghast; Thy sainted sense trammeld in ghostly pain, Thy rare ill-brokerd talent in disdain: Yet love of Christ will win mans love at last. Hell wars without; but, dear, the while my hands Gatherd thy book, I heard, this wintry day, Thy spirit thank me, in his young delight Stepping again upon the yellow sands. Go forth: amidst our chaffinch flock display Thy plumage of far wonder and heavenward flight! Chilswell, Jan. 1918.
Para. 1 That is, the MS. described in Editors preface as B. This preface does not apply to the early poems.