All a poet can do today is warn.

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

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

If I have to be a soldier I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable

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.

All a poet can do today is warn.

All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.