Bent¹ double， like old beggars under sacks，

Knock-kneed， coughing like hags， we cursed through sludge，

Till on the haunting flares² we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge³.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on， blood-shod. All went lame⁴； all blind；

Drunk with fatigue⁵； deaf even to the hoots⁶

Of tired， outstripped⁷ Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas！ Gas！ Quick， boys！ - An ecstasy⁸ of fumbling⁹，

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 misty¹⁰ panes¹¹ and thick green light，

As under a green sea， I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams， before my helpless sight，

He plunges¹² at me， guttering¹³， choking， drowning.

If in some smothering¹⁴ dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon¹⁵ that we flung him in，

And watch the white eyes writhing¹⁶ in his face，

His hanging face， like a devil's sick of sin；

If you could hear， at every jolt¹⁷， the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs，

Obscene as cancer， bitter as the cud

Of vile¹⁸， incurable¹⁹ sores on innocent tongues，

My friend， you would not tell with such high zest²⁰

To children ardent²¹ for some desperate glory，

The old Lie： Dulce et decorum est

Pro²² patria mori.

Wilfred Owen 1893-1918