| 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; | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| Shall shine the holy glimmers 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. | |