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17.3: Dulce et Decorum Est

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    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 (5)

    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

    Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines[2] that dropped behind.

    Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,

    Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; (10)

    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, (15)

    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; (20)

    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 (25)

    To children ardent for some desperate glory,

    The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

    Pro patria mori.

    Contributors and Attributions

    1. Owen alludes in the title and in the last two lines to Horace, Odes 3.2.13: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.” ↵
    2. 5.9-caliber shells. ↵
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