<h2> Dulce et Decorum est </h2>
<p>Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,<br/>
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,<br/>
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,<br/>
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.<br/>
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,<br/>
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;<br/>
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots<br/>
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.<br/>
<br/>
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling<br/>
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,<br/>
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling<br/>
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.—<br/>
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,<br/>
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.<br/>
<br/>
In all my dreams before my helpless sight<br/>
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.<br/>
<br/>
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace<br/>
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,<br/>
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,<br/>
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,<br/>
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood<br/>
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs<br/>
Bitter as the cud<br/>
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—<br/>
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest<br/>
To children ardent for some desperate glory,<br/>
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est<br/>
Pro patria mori.<br/></p>
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