| 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 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. |