Dulce Et Decorum Est
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 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 ---
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.
by wilfred owen
contrary to the shrill comment strings on every website i've seen this poem on, the title means "sweet and honorable it is," being the first phrase of the line of horace that ends the poem: dulce et decorum est pro patria mori: "sweet and honorable it is to die for one's country" (patria literally meaning fatherland).
this, i believe, is why Christianity died in so much of europe. our children asked for bread, and we (the Church) gave them gas bombs and ypres. we thought like the enemy did, and placed our trust in chariots, peace treaties, and the unalienable rights of men rather than in God. but that's just me.
