LyricModern · 19175 min · 2 passagesDemanding

Dulce et Decorum Est

Owen wrote from the trenches and addressed the poem to a reader at home. Its famous last line is not a slogan but a quotation he is holding up to the light.

War Mortality Power

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Bent double

Simile

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like , we cursed through , Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to . Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went ; all ; Drunk with ; 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.

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Plain English

Bent double like old beggars under sacks, knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed our way through mud, then turned our backs on the flares and trudged toward our distant rest. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots but limped on, blood-shod. Everyone was lame, everyone blind, drunk with tiredness, deaf even to the shells dropping behind us. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — a frenzy of fumbling to get the clumsy helmets on in time, but someone was still yelling and stumbling, floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim through the misty glass and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

The old Lie

Irony

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 To children for some glory, The old Lie: Dulce et est Pro patria mori.

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Plain English

If you could dream what I dream, and walk behind the wagon we threw him in, and watch the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face like a devil sick of sin; if you could hear, at every jolt, the blood gargling in his froth-corrupted lungs, obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud of vile incurable sores on innocent tongues — my friend, you would not tell children eager for some desperate glory, with such enthusiasm, the old Lie: it is sweet and honourable to die for your country.

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A broken world, written in broken lines. Every answer comes with the reason and the line that proves it.

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