After all my years of playing soldiers, and then of reading History, I have almost a mania to be in the East, to see fighting, and to serve.

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

I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; and caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; and buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; and rusted every bayonet with His tears.

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

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

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

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.