What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? <br />Only the monstrous anger of the guns. <br />Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle <br />Can patter out their hasty orisons. <br />No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; <br />Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, <br />The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; <br />And bugles calling for them from sad shires. <br />What candles may be held to speed them all? <br />Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes <br />Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes. <br />The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; <br />Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, <br />And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anthem-for-doomed-youth/
