I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?

All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.

I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.

All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.

Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth
All death will he annul, all tears assuage?
Or fill these void veins full again with youth
And wash with an immortal water age?

The war effects me less than it ought. I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.