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 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