of rebellion (quickly suppressed) of the thoughts and wishes of the
past. But I need my whole strength at times for keeping down the pangs
of memory and accepting what is.'

Indeed, strength was called for day by day. This 'adaptation' was no
transformation. But by a continuous act of vital energy he assimilated
all that he drew from his surroundings. Thus he fed his heart, and kept
his own ideals. This was a way to renounce all things, and by
renunciation to keep the one thing needful, to remain himself, to live,
and not only to live but to flourish; to have a part in that universal
life which produces flowers in nature, art and poetry in man. To gain so
much, all that was needed was to treasure, unaltered by the terrors of
war, a heart eager for all shapes of beauty. For this most religious
poet, beauty was that divine spirit which shines more or less clearly in
all things, and which raises him who perceives it higher than the
accidents of individual existence. And he receives its full influence,
and is rid of all anxiety, who is able to bid adieu to the present and
the past, to regret nothing, to desire nothing, to receive from the
passing moment that influence in its plenitude. 'I accept all from the
hands of fate, and I have captured every delight that lurks under cover
of every moment.' In this state of simplicity, which is almost a state
of grace, he enters into communion with the living reality of the
world. 'Let us eat and drink to all that is eternal, for to-morrow we
die to all that is of earth.'

That emancipation of the soul is not achieved in a day. The earlier
letters are beautiful, but what they teach is learnt by nearly all our
soldiers. In these he tells of the spirit of the men, their fire of
enthusiasm, their imperious sense of duty, their resolve to carry 'an
undefiled conscience as far as their feet may lead.' Yet already he is