12 November 2017

Quiet November Sunday

Anthem for Doomed Youth
by 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 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 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.

Hear this poem read here.


Araignee said...

Wow....that's powerful.

AsKatKnits said...

Oh, my. That is beautiful! Thank you for sharing!

Judy S. said...

Great poem, thanks!

Bonny said...

Sometimes poetry speaks louder than prose, and this is one of them, even more so when you can hear it read. Thank you for sharing.

J said...

Wow, devastating.