1 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, <br />2 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, <br />3 Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs, <br />4 And towards our distant rest began to trudge. <br />5 Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, <br />6 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind; <br />7 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots <br />8 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. <br /> <br />9 Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling <br />10 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, <br />11 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling <br />12 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.-- <br />13 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, <br />14 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. <br /> <br />15 In all my dreams before my helpless sight <br />16 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. <br /> <br />17 If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace <br />18 Behind the wagon that we flung him in, <br />19 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, <br />20 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin, <br />21 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood <br />22 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs <br />23 Bitter as the cud <br />24 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- <br />25 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest <br />26 To children ardent for some desperate glory, <br />27 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est <br />28 Pro patria mori.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dulce-et-decorum-est/
