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 to sleep,
many had lost their boots,
But limped on, bloodshod.
All went lame, all blind,
drunk with fatigue,
Death,
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 floundering like a man in fire or lime,
*** 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 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 of 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.