Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.

The old happiness is unreturning. Boy's griefs are not so grievous as youth's yearning. Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope.

The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.

Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.

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

The war affects me less than it ought. But I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.

Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.