What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?- Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan 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 eyesShall 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.
Talk of citizenship today is often thin and tinny.
The word has a faintly old-fashioned feel to it when used in everyday conversation. When evoked in national politics, it's usually accompanied by the shrill whine of a descending culture-war mortar.
We have no faith in ourselves. I have never met a woman who, deep down in her core, really believes she has great legs. And if she suspects that she might have great legs, then she's convinced that she has a shrill voice and no neck.