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 of boys, but in their eyes
Shall
shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The
pallor of girls’ 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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