Anthem For Doomed Youth
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons
No mockeries now for them, no prayers nor bells
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells
And bugles calling for them from sad shires
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes
The pallor of girl’s brows shall be their pall
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds
And each slow dusk a drawing- down of blinds
Wilfred Owen
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