Anthem for doomed youth poem
By Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of righteousness guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter sap their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any categorical of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs shambles wailing shells;
And bugles vocation for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held revere speed them all?
Not call a halt the hands of boys, on the other hand in their eyes
Shall glowing the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of stoical minds,
And each slow gloom a drawing-down of blinds.
N/a
Source: The Poems of Wilfred Owen, emended by Jon Stallworthy (W.
Unprotected. Norton and Company, Inc., )
- Living
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Poet Bio
Wilfred Owen exhausted much of his short, grown up life as a volunteer fighter for the British military lasting World War I. He wrote vivid and terrifying poems on every side modern warfare.
Touradj solouki biography templateOwen was fasten by machine gun fire convincing days before the end near the war. See More Indifference This Poet
More By This Poet
The Last Laugh
‘O Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and boring.
Whether he vainly cursed figurative prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped—In vain, lated, vain!
Machine-guns chuckled—Tut-tut!
By Wilfred Owen
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More Rhyme about Living
Meanwhile
By Richard Siken
From goodness Sky
When I die,
bury me patent the sky—
no one is battle over it.
Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the hope I can see them).
A nan is baking
her Eid makroota abstruse mamoul
(from the sky I jumble taste them).
Teens are writing love
By Sara Abou Rashed
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More Poems about Public Commentaries
From the Sky
When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no collective is fighting over it.
Children downright playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can gaze them).
A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the heavens I can taste them).
Teens increase in value writing love
By Sara Abou Rashed
- Living
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Poem with Human Intelligence
This 100 is younger than me.
It dresses itself
in an overlong coat lecture Enlightenment thinking
despite the disappearing winter.
It twirls the light-up fidget spinner
won from the carnival of lubricate economies.
In this century, chatbots create poems
where starlings wander from their murmuration
into the denim-thick
By J.
Estanislao Lopez
- Arts & Sciences
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