The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language...everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.

Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.

Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.

I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's

If I have to be a soldier I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable

Was it for this the clay grew tall?