Dulce et Decorum Est

[KMFJD]

I was reading some articles about the war and remembrance day and came upon this poem


Dulce et Decorum Est

By Wilfred Owen

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.

(“It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”)

 

[kage69]

Horatius comes to mind.


“To every man upon this earth, death cometh soon or late;

And how can man die better than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods,

And for the tender mother who dandled him to rest,

And for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast,

And for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame,

To save them from false Sextus, that wrought the deed of shame?

 

[ccryder]

Another good WW1 poet.

I Stood With the Dead
By Siegfried Sassoon
I stood with the Dead, so forsaken and still:
When dawn was grey I stood with the Dead.
And my slow heart said, ‘You must kill, you must kill’:
‘Soldier, soldier, morning is red.’
On the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace
I stared for a while through the thin cold rain ….
‘O lad that I loved, there is rain on your face,
‘And your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain.’
I stood with the Dead . . . . They were dead; they were dead;
My heart and my head beat a march of dismay:
And gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns.
‘Fall in!’ I shouted; ‘Fall in for your pay!’