Love is a flame; we have beaconed the world’s night.

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out all the years.

Canada is a live country – live, but not, like the States, kicking.

There’s little comfort in the wise.

Store up reservoirs of calm and content and draw on them at later moments when the source isn’t there, but the need is very great.

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

It’s all a terrible tragedy. And yet, in it’s details, it’s great fun. And – apart from the tragedy – I’ve never felt happier or better in my life than in those days in Belgium.

And in that Heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish.

But there’s wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.