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.
That is, the MS. described in Editors preface as B. This preface does not apply to the early poems.