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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; 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
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