| 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.
|
| |
| |
| |
| |
