I was first introduced to this poem in grade 9 english, and then again when I moved to Amherst in Mr. Bauld's grade 10 english. I wrote a horrid 6 page essay on it in grade 9. I thought it was supposed to be 3 pages, back to back, so when I ran out of substance, I made some up and stretch out other thoughts as much as possible to fill the space. After I got the essay back, my teacher advised it was only supposed to be 3 pages, but he gave me an A for the effort.
Anyhow, I stumbled upon it today, and it seems to be fitting for the occasion.
Dulce et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)
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.