What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger is the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them, no prayers nor bells;
No any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shillvdemented choirs of waiting shells;
And bulges calling for them from sad shirts.
What candles may be held to speed then all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
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
YOU ARE READING
Poems from the first world war
Poetrythese at some if my favourite poems from the first world war. And it is really sad that this would happen to inesent life's
