What passing bells, for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns,
Only the stuttering rifle's rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries for them, from prayers or bells,
Nor any voices of mourning, save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells
And bugles calling them from their sad shires.

What candles may be helf to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmer 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.