2 min read
Слушать(AI)Anthem For Doomed Youth
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.
Wilfred Owen
Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, MC (18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918) was an English poet and soldier. He was one of the leading poets of the First W
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
The Show
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, As unremembering how I rose or why, And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth, Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe,
Asleep
Under his helmet, up against his pack, After so many days of work and waking, Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,
The Wrestlers
So neck to neck and obstinate knee to Wrestled those two; and peerless Could not prevail nor catch at any vantage; But those huge hands which small had strangled
Spring Offensive [unfinished]
Halted against the shade of a last hill, They fed, and lying easy, were at And, finding comfortable chests and knees, Carelessly slept
