Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad. - Wilfred Owen

Courage was mine, and I had mastery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mystery: To miss the march of this retreating world into vain citadels that are not walled.

And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan.
And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid
Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further,
Showed me its feet, the feet of many men,
And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.

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.