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 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.
--Wilfred Owen
I am fortunate to have recently joined a local choral group that will be performing Benjamin Britten's War Requiem, which incorporates several settings of Owen's poetry. One of our members has been reading and discussing the poems in our rehearsals, which has really been a treat (think the best part of the best English class you ever took, distilled into tasty 5-minute bits. Awesome.)
Anyway, I had never heard this poem until all of this. It simply haunts me. And it seems appropriate for today.
Owen fought (and was killed) in WWI. They say his poetry changed the way people thought about war. This may be true, but...I can't help but think not enough...
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