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Anthem for Doomed Youth (view source)
Revision as of 20:58, August 31, 2010
, 20:58, August 31, 2010Created page
''Anthem for Doomed Youth '' is a celebrated war poem by British poet and soldier [[Wilfred Owen]], composed during [[World War I]]. It is written in the typical form of an English [[sonnet]].
Owen wrote the poem while in hospital recovering from shell shock. It was written with the help of fellow soldier, poet and patient [[Siegfried Sassoon], who suggested changing the title from "Anthem for Dead Youth."
== Text ==
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 />
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 />
Owen wrote the poem while in hospital recovering from shell shock. It was written with the help of fellow soldier, poet and patient [[Siegfried Sassoon], who suggested changing the title from "Anthem for Dead Youth."
== Text ==
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 />
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 />