and hers ; not “ how wonderful it is,” that is, his 
poem. 
The poem is simple, understandable, direct, not 
verbose.  More I demand not, seeing it is written 
(almost literally so) in blood ; for I am sure that 
he was dying of that love for Alice, whose 
marvellous beauty it was his mission (who 
may doubt it ?) to reveal.  For the burning 
torch of truth may smoke, but it is our one 
sure light in passion and distress.  The jewelled 
silence of the star is, indeed, the light of a 
serener art ; but love is human, and I give 
nothing for the tawdry gems of style when the 
breast they would adorn is that of a breathing, 
living beauty of man’s love, the heart of all the 
world.  Nor let us taint one sympathy with even a 
shadow of regret.  Let us leave him where 
“ Sight nor sound shall war against him more, 
For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, 
All waters as the shore.” 
 
NOTE.—The sudden and tragic death of the Editor has 
necessitated the completion of his task by another hand.  
The introduction was, however, in practically its present 
form. 
 
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