Poems for Armistice Day 1998

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 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.

Wilfred Owen 1918

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

 

We are the Dead.

Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

 

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

John McCrae 1915

The Doorkeepers of Zion,

They do not always stand

In helmet and whole armour,

With halberds in their hand;

But, being sure of Zion,

And all her mysteries,

They rest awhile in Zion,

Sit down and smile in Zion;

Ay, even jest in Zion;

In Zion, at their ease.

 

The Gatekeepers of Baal,

They dare not sit or lean,

But fume and fret and posture

And foam and curse between;

For, being bound to Baal,

Whose sacrifice is vain

Their rest is scant with Baal,

They glare and pant for Baal,

They mouth and rant for Baal;

For Baal in their pain.

 

But we will go to Zion,

By choice and not through dread,

With these our present comrades

And those our present dead;

And, being free of Zion

In both her fellowships,

Sit down and sup in Zion-

Stand up and drink in Zion

Whatever cup in Zion

Is offered to our lips!

Rudyard Kipling.