THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY
Gwent. It was here, in this old and good world, that I finished and brought to an end the best I could make of my dreams; the fairy gold that had turned into dry leaves. I wrote late at night when all the house was asleep, and the snow was on the ground. Later, with the new year and the coming of summer I wrote till the sky grew red over Wentwood. I have a pleasant memory of working at my book of a warm and sunny morning in the June of '86. The elder blossom was sweet in the air, and I had taken out my pen and ink and paper to one of the orchards below the Rectory. Here was a contrivance which had once been the stand for a beehive: the hive was gone, and there you had a very excellent table.
So it was ended at last: this book into which I put all my dreams and my desires, such vision as had been given me, such craftsmanship as I could attain, such hints of another world (that is not very far off but very near) as any words and phrases that I knew could convey. Here it is, "The Chronicle of Clemendy": alas!
