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