What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.

I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.

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.

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.

When I begin to eliminate from the list all those professions which are impossible from a financial point of view and then those which I feel disinclined to-it leaves nothing