beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we
cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned
out 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
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.
