All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.

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

Futility Move him into the sun - Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know. Think how it wakes the seeds, - Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides, Full-nerved -still warm -too hard to stir? Was it for this the clay grew tall? -O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?

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

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

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.

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!