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