But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.

The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.

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.

Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?

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.

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

Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn't there, but the need is very great.