All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

When Trying To Explain Anything, I Usually Find That The Bible, That Great Collection Of Magnificent And Varied Poetry, Has Said It Before In The Best Possible Way.

This Is War: Boys Flung Into A Breach Like Shoveled Earth; And Old Men, Broken, Driving Rapidly Before Crowds Of People In A Glitter Of Silly Decorations. Behind The Boys And The Old Men, Life Weeps, And Shreds Her Garments To The Blowing Winds.

Life Is A Stream On Which We Strew Petal By Petal The Flower Of Our Heart.

Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.

I Shall Go Up And Down In My Gown. Gorgeously Arrayed, Boned And Stayed.