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Owen, Wilfred: Hymne à la jeunesse condamnée (Anthem For Doomed Youth in French)

Portre of Owen, Wilfred

Anthem For Doomed Youth (English)

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.
No mockeries 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.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Uploaded byP. T.
PublisherW. W. Norton and Company, Inc.,
Source of the quotationThe Poems of Wilfred Owen, edited by Jon Stallworthy /
Publication date

Hymne à la jeunesse condamnée (French)

Quel glas sonner pour ceux qui meurent comme du bétail ?

Seule, la colère monstrueuse des canons,

Seul, le crépitement rapide des fusils hoquetants

Peuvent ponctuer leurs oraisons hâtives,

Pour eux, pas de prières ni de cloches dérisoires,

Nulle voix endeuillée hormis les chœurs, –

Les chœurs suraigus et démentiels des obus gémissants ;


Quelles chandelles tenir pour leur souhaiter bon vent ?

Non dans la main des garçons, mais dans leurs yeux,

Brilleront les lueurs sacrées des adieux,

La pâleur du front des filles sera leur linceul,

Leurs fleurs, la tendresse d'esprits silencieux,

Et chaque long crépuscule, un rideau qui se clôt.

Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotation

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