The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.

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

Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.

It's all a terrible tragedy. And yet, in it's details, it's great fun. And - apart from the tragedy - I've never felt happier or better in my life than in those days in Belgium.

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

And I shall find some girl perhaps, and a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, and lips as soft, but true, and I dare say she will do.

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