BYÂ WILFRED OWEN
What passing-bells for these who die as kine?
 Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
      Only the stuttering rifles rapid rattle
goat patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
      Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,â"
The shrill, demented choirs of shout out shells;
      And bugles c whollying 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 ruminate the holy glimmers of good-byes.
      The pallor of girls brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of persevering minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
An Old Woman
BYÂ Arun kolatkar
An old woman grabs
hold of your sleeve
and tags along. .
She postulates a fifty paise coin.
She says she testament take you
to the horseshoe shrine.
Youve seen it already.
She hobbles along anyway
and tightens her grip on your shirt
She wint let you go.
You know how old women are.
They stick to you akin a burr.
You turn around and face her
with an air of finality.
You want to end the farce.
When you hear her say,
What else can an old woman do
on hills as wretched as these?
You look right at the sky.
Clear through the bullet holes
she has for her eyes.
And as you look on,
the cracks that gravel around her eyes
spread beyond her skin.
And the hills crack.
And the temples crack.
And the sky falls
With a plate-glass clatter
about the shatterproof crone
who stands alone
And you are reduced
to so much small change
in her hand
Shield of Achilles
BYÂ W. H. Auden
She looked over his shoulder
      For vines and olive trees,
    Marble well-governed cities
      And ships upon violent seas,
    But there on the shining metal
      His hands had instal instead
    An artificial wilderness
      And a sky like lead.
A gauze-like without a feature, bare and brown,
  No blade of grass, no character of...If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: Ordercustompaper.com
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