Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin they think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives
In me the tiger sniffs the rose.
Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, drawing no dividend from time's tomorrows.
The song was wordless; / The singing will never be done.
Man, it seemed, had been created to jab the life out of Germans.
And when the war is done and youth stone dead/ I'd toddle safely home and die - in bed.
His most rational response to my attempts at drawing him out about literature and art was 'I adore italics, don't you?'
Mute in that golden silence hung with green, Come down from heaven and bring me in your eyesRemembrance of all beauty that has been, And stillness from the pools of Paradise.
I didn't want to die - not before I'd finished reading The Return of the Native anyhow.
The fact is that five years ago I was, as near as possible, a different person to what I am tonight. I, as I am now, didn't exist at all. Will the same thing happen in the next five years? I hope so.
But I've grown thoughtful now. And you have lost Your early-morning freshness of surprise At being so utterly mine: you've learned to fear The gloomy, stricken places in my soul, And the occasional ghosts that haunt my gaze.
What voice revisits me this night? What face To my heart's room returns? From the perpetual silence where the grace Of human sainthood burns Hastes he once more to harmonise and heal? I know not. Only I feel His influence undiminished And his life's work, in me and many, unfinished.
I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance of military authority, because I believe that the War is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it.
I am not protesting against the conduct of the war, but against the political errors and insincerities for which the fighting men are being sacrificed.