“Shall they return to beating of great bellsIn wild train-loads?A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to village wells,Up half-known roads.”

“You shall not hear their mirth:You shall not come to think them well contentBy any jest of mine. These men are worthYour tears:You are not worth their merriment.”

“What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifle's rapid rattleCan 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 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.”

“But the old man would not so, but slew his son,And half the seed of Europe, one by one.”

“I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.”

“But let my death be memoried on this disc.Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.But let thy heart-beat kiss it night and day,Until the name grow vague and wear away.”

“Behold,A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.But the old man would not so, but slew his son,And half the seed of Europe, one by one”