Anthem for a Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
--Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds
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 ecstacy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under I green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before me 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.