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 sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,

Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,

And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!

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 [orations]

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.