If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.

Canada is a live country - live, but not, like the States, kicking.

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate.

The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.

Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.