RobBright 35 Posted November 9, 2008 Share Posted November 9, 2008 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 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. Link to post Share on other sites
nzlegend 1 Posted November 10, 2008 Share Posted November 10, 2008 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Link to post Share on other sites
Mantas 3 Posted November 10, 2008 Share Posted November 10, 2008 They shall grow not old As we that are left grow old Age shall not weary them Nor the years condemn At the going down of the sun And in the morning We will remember them Lest we forget. Link to post Share on other sites
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