_To Gordon Bottomley (Postmark, April 8, 1917)._ “All through this winter I have felt most crotchety, all kinds of small things interfering with my fitness. My hands would get chilblains or bad boots would make my feet sore; and this aggravating a general run-down-ness, I have not felt too happy. I have gone less warmly clad during the winter than through the summer, because of the increased liveliness on my clothes. I’ve been stung to what we call ‘dumping’ a great part of my clothing, as I thought it wisest to go cold than lousy. It may have been this that caused all the crotchetiness. However, we’ve been in no danger—that is, from shell-fire—for a good long while, though so very close to most terrible fighting. But as far as houses or sign of ordinary human living is concerned, we might as well be in the Sahara Desert. I think I could give some blood-curdling touches if I wished to tell all I see, of dead buried men blown out of their graves, and more, but I will spare you all this.” _To Edward Marsh (Postmark, May, 1917)._ “Regular rhythms I do not like much, but, of course, it depends on where the stress and accent are laid. I think there is nothing finer than the vigorous opening to ‘Lycidas’ for music; yet it is regular.... It is only when we get a bit of a rest and the others might be gambling or squabbling I do a line or two and continue this way. The weather is gorgeous now, and we are bivouacked in the fields.” _To Edward Marsh (1917)._ “I hope you have not yet got my poem, ‘The Amulet,’ I’ve asked my sister to send you. If you get it, please don’t read it, because it’s the merest sketch and the best is yet to come. If I am able to carry on with it, I’ll send you it in a more presentable fashion. I believe I have a good idea at bottom. It’s a kind of ‘Rape of the Sabine Women’ idea: some strange race of wanderers have settled in some wild place and are perishing out for lack of women. The prince of these explores some country near where the women are most fair. But the natives will not hear of foreign marriages; and he plots another Rape of the Sabines, but is trapped in the act.” _To Edward Marsh (1917)._