For today’s poem, I decided to dip into the 20th century with a sonnet by Wilfred Owen, a British poet and soldier who died in battle in World War I. Wilfred wrote poetry for just about a year and died a few months after penning this poem, ironically, and sadly, called, “Anthem for Doomed Youth.” I have to admit, that reading this poem was a bit tough, especially with all of the Covid-19-related deaths here and around the globe.
Peace to all of you; may you be safe and well.
Anthem for Doomed Youth, by Wilfred Owen
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.