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.
If I have got to be a soldier, I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable.
I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law.
Be bullied, be outraged, be killed, but do not kill.
Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!
A Poem does not grow by jerks. As trees in Spring produce a new ring of tissue, so does every poet put forth a fresh outlay of stuff at the same season.
