Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!

These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.

The Young Soldier It is not death Without hereafter To one in dearth Of life and its laughter, Nor the sweet murder Dealt slow and even Unto the martyr Smiling at heaven: It is the smile Faint as a (waning) myth, Faint, and exceeding small On a boy's murdered mouth.

I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?

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

I, too, saw God through mud

Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.