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.
Wilfred Owen
What posthumous anthems of truth he blogs by proxy, Julia.
ReplyDeleteThey went with songs to the battle, they were young.
ReplyDeleteStraight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
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.
Yes, that's right Julia.
ReplyDelete“When You Go Home,
ReplyDeleteTell Them Of Us And Say,
For Their Tomorrow,
We Gave Our Today”
The Kohima Memorial.