Wilfred Owen
Wilfred Owen
| 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 from prayers or 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 silent minds, |
| And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. |
|
Wilfred Owen |
Lest we forget
Lest we forget
