| 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 floundering 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, |
| 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.
|
| Wilfred Owen
| Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ Anthem for Doomed Youth ] [ Dulce et Decorum est ] [ Exposure ] [ Strange Meeting ] [ The Send-Off ] [ The Sentry ] |
