Now, God be thanked Who has matched
us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs
And all the little emptiness of love!
What passing-bells for these who die
-Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons [orations]
No mockeries now for them; no prayers
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.