Skye+M.

Zepplins []

//Wilfred Owen// What passing-bells2 for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns . Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out3 their hasty orisons.4 No mockeries5 now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –The shrill, demented6 choirs of wailing shells; And bugles7 calling for them from sad shires.8 What candles9 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 pallor10 of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk11 a drawing-down of blinds.12
 * Anthem for the Doomed Youth**