o keep guard upon oneself.

_February 5._

A sleepless night. Hateful return to the barn. Such a fearful row that
the corporals had to complain. Punishments.

In the morning, on the march, and, in order to rest us, work to-night!

_February 6._

MY DEAR BELOVED MOTHER,--After the sleepless night in our billet, we had
to supply a working-party all the following night. So I have been
sleeping up till the very moment of writing to you. Sleep and Night are
refuges which give life still one attraction.

Mother dear, I am living over again the lovely legend of Sarpedon; and
that exquisite flower of Greek poetry really gives me comfort. If you
will read this passage of the _Iliad_ in my beautiful translation by
Lecomte de l'Isle, you will see that Zeus utters in regard to destiny
certain words in which the divine and the eternal shine out as nobly as
in the Christian Passion. He suffers, and his fatherly heart undergoes a
long battle, but finally he permits his son to die, and Hypnos and
Thanatos are sent to gather up the beloved remains.

Hypnos--that is Sleep. To think that I should come to that, I for whom
every waking hour was a waking joy, I for whom every moment of action
was a thrill of pride. I catch myself longing for the escape of Sleep
from the tumult that besets me. But the splendid Greek optimism shines
out as in those vases at the Louvre. By the two, Hypnos and Thanatos,
Sarpedon is lifted to a life beyond his human death; and assuredly Sleep
and Death do wonderfully magnify and continue our mortal fate.

Thanatos--that is a mystery, and it is a terror only because the urgency
of our transitory desires makes us misconceive the mystery. But read
over again the great peaceful words of Maeterlinck in his book on death,
words ringing with compassion for our fears in the tremendous passage of
mortality.

_February 7._

MOST DEAR AND MOST BELOVED,--I have your splendid letter of the first.
Please don't hesitate to write what you think I would call mere chatter.
Your love and the absolute identity of our two hearts appear in all your
letters. And that is all I really care for. Yet they tell me a thousand
things that interest me too.

We are living through hours of heavy labour. My rank gives me respite
now and then; but for the men it means five nights at a time without
sleep, and this repeatedly.

_February 9._

Another breathing-space in which, almost at my last gasp, I get a brief
peace. The