No-man's land under snow is like the face of the moon: chaotic, crater ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness.

I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense conciliatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.

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

All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.

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