God is love, the bishops tell.Yes, I know, But love is hell.

Helen whose face was fatal must have weptMany salt tears to keep her eyes so brightMany long nights alone: and every nightMen died, she cried, and happy Paris keptSweet Helen.

Be kind, Helen, I am so tired of thinking;There are so many difficult corridors of thought,With equal iron banisters leading back again:So many stone stairs, Helen, up which I soughtTo rediscover the windy sky, and stand, blinking,In the lost sunlight: as bright as pain,Helen. I would give almost anything nowEven for pain.

Little childWho was me once,My pity on you—And reverence.If we could meetWhere I once strayed,The betrayerAnd the betrayed.If we could win backIn Time's defiance,Would you be afeared of me,Ten-year-old Terence?No, you would not fear.You would love, trust,Cherish, admireThis tedious dust.For oh! we were all brimming onceWith the sun-sparkled dew.One heart could have loved this hulk—The ignorant heart of you.

The most difficult thing in the world is to know how to do a thing and to watch somebody else doing it wrong, without comment.

The fisherman fishes as the urchin eats cream buns, from lust.

Dogs, like very small children, are quite mad.

Aviators live by hours, not by days.

I would recommend a solo flight to all prospective suicides. It tends to make clear the issue of whether one enjoys being alive or not. Originally titled The Witch in the Wood

Ther days may come,/Ther days may go,/But still the light of Mem'ry weaves/Those gentle dreams/Of long ago