What passing bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifle's rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers, nor bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the ch...
He's lost his colour very far from here, Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry
Phantoms of thought and memory thinned and fled.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
