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

Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.

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

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.

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.

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

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