Maxioms by Wilfred Owen
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan read more
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan patter out their hasty orisons. - Anthem for Doomed Youth.
