At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month we remember in silence. The Glorious Dead. Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn...At the going down of the sun and in the morning we shall remember them.
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Anthem for Doomed Youth
by Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
- Only the monstruous 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.
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