DULCE ET DECORUM EST

I studied war poetry at school and this poem affected me. Maybe it will have the same impact on you.

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.

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 – March, 1918