The marvel is that we did not all die of cold. As a matter of fact, only one of my party actually froze to death before he could be got back, but I am not able to tell how many have ended up in hospital. We were marooned in a frozen desert. There was not a sign of life on the horizon and a thousand signs of death.

Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do

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.

All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.

Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.

And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

I, too, saw God through mud