I don’t ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?
Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.
Flying is the only active profession I would ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law.
All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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.
She is elegant rather than belle.
Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do.
I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet’s.
Those who have no hope pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.
When I begin to eliminate from the list all those professions which are impossible from a financial point of view and then those which I feel disinclined to – it leaves nothing.
All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.
If I have got to be a soldier, I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable.