All The Poet Can Do Today Is

Heart, You Were Never Hot Nor Large, Nor Full Like Hearts Made Great With Shot

My Soul's A Little Grief, Grappling Your Chest, To Climb Your Throat On Sobs; Easily Chased On Other Sighs And Wiped By Fresher Winds.

All Theological Lore Is Becoming Distasteful To Me.

If I Have To Be A Soldier I Must Be A Good One, Anything Else Is Unthinkable

Flying Is The Only Active Profession I Could Ever Continue With Enthusiasm After The War.