Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum Est<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,<\/p>\n
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,<\/p>\n
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs<\/p>\n
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.<\/p>\n
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots<\/p>\n
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;<\/p>\n
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots<\/p>\n
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!\u2014An ecstasy of fumbling,<\/p>\n
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;<\/p>\n
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling<\/p>\n
And flound\u2019ring like a man in fire or lime…<\/p>\n
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,<\/p>\n
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,<\/p>\n
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace<\/p>\n
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,<\/p>\n
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,<\/p>\n
His hanging face, like a devil\u2019s sick of sin;<\/p>\n
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood<\/p>\n
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,<\/p>\n
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud<\/p>\n
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,\u2014<\/p>\n
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest<\/p>\n
To children ardent for some desperate glory,<\/p>\n
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est<\/p>\n
Pro patria mori.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Wilfred Owen, British poet, 1893-1918<\/p>\n\n