As bronze may be much beautified by lying in the dark damp soil, so men who fade in dust of warfare fade fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.

Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

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

All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.

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

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.