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

I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you.

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

Oh! death will find me long before I tire of watching you.

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.

I know what things are good: friendship and work and conversation. These I shall have.

I have need to busy my heart with quietude.