<h2> Anthem for Doomed Youth </h2>
<p>What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?<br/>
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.<br/>
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle<br/>
Can patter out their hasty orisons.<br/>
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,<br/>
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—<br/>
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;<br/>
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.<br/>
<br/>
What candles may be held to speed them all?<br/>
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes<br/>
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.<br/>
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;<br/>
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,<br/>
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.<br/></p>
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