Before the war ended common sense had rescued me from any belief that war could do the human race, or my country, any good whatever.

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover; / Breath's a ware that will not keep. / Up, lad; when the journey's over / There'll be time enough for sleep.

They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man, / The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.

Then the world seemed none so bad, and I myself a sterling lad. And down in lovely muck I've lain, happy - till I woke up again.

This is for all ill-treated fellows - Unborn and unbegot, For them to read when they're in trouble And I am not

And the feather pate of folly / Bears the falling of the sky.

At that time I had no notion that I should ever come to live in Somerset - to live actually within the range of what then lay before me.

With rue my heart is laden / For golden friends I had, / For many a rose-lipt maiden / And many a lightfoot lad.

But men at whiles are sober / And think by fits and starts, / And if they think, they fasten / Their hands upon their hearts.

We for a certainty are not the first have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed whatever brute and blackguard made the world.