The name of Edward Burne-Jones must call up visions of an enchanted land, remote yet familiar, where gracious shapes move slowly through blossom-decked meadows or dream beside still waters in lonely hollows of the hills.
A land of clear colour and stories,
A region of shadowless hours,
sang Swinburne when dedicating the firstfruits of his genius to his friend, and the description is apt and loving, though perhaps not quite a true one; for over that fair land ever hung the shadow of a beautiful sorrow, a sorrow all too prophetic of the passing of beauty from the world, a lament for dead days that will dawn no more.
Those who knew the painter only . . .
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