Dulce et Decorum est
Owen, Wilfred (1893-1918)

   Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
   Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
   Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
   And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
   Men marched asleep.  Many had lost their boots,
   But limped on, blood-shod.  All went lame, all blind;
   Drunk with fatigue;  deaf even to the hoots
   Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

   Gas!  Gas!  Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling,
   Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
   But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
   and flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.
   Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
   As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

   In all my dreams before my helpless sight
   He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

   If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
   Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
   And watch the white eyes writing 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
   Bitter as the cud
   Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
   My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
   To children ardent for some desperate glory,
   The old lie:  Dulce et decorum est
   Pro patria mori.

Chief Modern Poets of England and America, 4th Ed (Sanders, Nelson & Rosenthal)