#     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 disappointed shells 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.
#                           Wilfred Owen, "Dulce Et Decorum Est"


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