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

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.

I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

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

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.