an apt poem

anthem for doomed youth

what passing bells for those who died 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 or bells
nor any voice of mourning save the choirs -
the shrill demented choirs of wailing shells;
and bugles calling for them in 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 glimmer 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