attain to the poignant simplicity of 'The Hawthorn
Tree' or the detached irony of 'Does it Matter?'

Can he then see nothing else in war? I remember
him once turning to me and saying suddenly apropos
of certain exalte poems in my 'Ardours and
Endurances': 'Yes, I see all that and I agree with
you, Robert. War has made me. I think I am a man now
as well as a poet. You have said the things well
enough. Now let us nevermore say another word of
whatever little may be good in war for the individual
who has a heart to be steeled.'

I remember I nodded, for further acquaintance with
war inclines me to his opinion.

'Let no one ever,' he continued, 'from henceforth
say a word in any way countenancing war. It is dangerous
even to speak of how here and there the individual
may gain some hardship of soul by it. For war
is hell and those who institute it are criminals. Were
there anything to say for it, it should not be said for
its spiritual disasters far outweigh any of its advantages.'

For myself this is the truth. War doesn't ennoble:
it degrades. The words of Barbusse placed at the beginning
of this book should be engraved over the doors
of every war office of every State in the world.

While war is a possibility man is little better than