Dulce et decorum est |
by Wilfred Owen
(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 tired, outstripped
Five-Nines that dropped 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 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 as cancer, 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. |
There is no reason to comment;
except by mourning that Owen died on the 4th November 1918. |