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

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.

The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.

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.

I, too, saw God through mud

The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language...everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.