(July 14, 1916)

The pathos of departure is indubitable.

I never felt my own essay "On saying Good-Bye" so profoundly aux trefonds du coeur. The sun was a clear globe of blood which we caught hanging over Ben Edar, with a trail of pure blood vibrating to us across the waves. It dropped into darkness before we left the deck. Some lines came to me, suggested by a friend who thought the mood cynical.

As the sun died in blood, and hill and sea Grew to an altar, red with mystery, One came who knew me (it may be over-much) Seeking the cynical and staining touch, But I, against the great sun's burial Thought only of bayonet-flash and bugle-call, And saw him as God's eye upon the deep, Closed in the dream in which no women weep, And knew that even I shall fall on sleep.