“I will go from one end to the other of my beloved Europe.I know well that I shall be going only to a churchyard, but I know, too, that the churchyard is dear, very dear, to me. Beloved dead lie buried there. Every stone over them, every bomb-crater containing the pulverized bones of these dead, tell of a life once so ardently lived, so passionate a belief in its own achievements, its own truth, its own battles, its own knowledge, that I know, even now I know, that I shall fall down and kiss these stones, these endless ruins, this blood-drenched, sacred earth, and weep…”
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