Mute in that golden silence hung with green,Come down from heaven and bring me in your eyesRemembrance of all beauty that has been,And stillness from the pools of Paradise.

I didn’t want to die – not before I’d finished reading The Return of the Native anyhow.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you’ll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.” “The War Poems

The fact is that five years ago I was, as near as possible, a different person to what I am tonight. I, as I am now, didn’t exist at all. Will the same thing happen...

But I’ve grown thoughtful now. And you have lost Your early-morning freshness of surprise At being so utterly mine: you’ve learned to fear The gloomy, stricken places in my soul, And the occasional ghosts that...

Phantoms of thought and memory thinned and fled.

The phrase “after-life” was also vaguely confused with going to church and not wanting to be dead – a perplexity which can be omitted from a narrative in which I am doing my best to...

All the sanguine guesswork of youth is there, and the silliness; all the novelty of being alive and impressed by the urgency of tremendous trivialities.