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 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.

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 goodbyes.
      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.

The samphire gatherer to the cliff-face clings 
Halfway 'twixt sky and sea:
She has but youth and courage for her wings,
And always Death about her labour sings,
And fain would loosen steady hand or knee, 
And cast her down among life's broken things,
But danger shakes with fitful murmurings 
No such brave heart as she. 

The gulls are crying in her heedless ears 
That strength is made a mock 
At grips with the great sea. She has no fears, 
But treads with naked feet the stair of rock 
That has but known for years on weary years 
The touch of sea-gulls' wings, the sea that rears 
Her waves against it with recurrent shock, 
The sun that burns and sears.

She has no fears because her daily bread 
She sees made manifest 
Here in the pendulous weed that tempts her tread 
Upon so wild and dangerous a quest. 
The samphire sways and dangles overhead 
And home is far below; and in that nest 
Are little hungry mouths that must be fed, 
Though Danger be her neighbour and her guest. 

Night brings her little children to her knee 
For daily bread to pray; 
Their father tosses on the open sea, 
Where flashing shoals of silver dolphins play. 
But hungry mouths must feed while he's away, 
So the brave mother clambers day by day,
And pulls the samphire trails, and knows not she 
Is of that school of saints that wear no bay,
But do God's work the still and splendid way.