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dawn； some men attack； And many sighs are drained。 Happy the lad whose
mind was never trained： His days are worth forgetting more than not。 He
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
sings along the march Which we march taciturn； because of dusk； The
long； forlorn； relentless trend From larger day to huger night。
V
We wise； who with a thought besmirch Blood over all our soul； How
should we see our task But through his blunt and lashless eyes？ Alive； he
is not vital overmuch； Dying； not mortal overmuch； Nor sad； nor proud；
Nor curious at all。 He cannot tell Old men's placidity from his。
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns； That they should be as
stones。 Wretched are they； and mean With paucity that never was
simplicity。 By choice they made themselves immune To pity and whatever
mourns in man Before the last sea and the hapless stars； Whatever mourns
when many leave these shores； Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of
tears。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
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 gas…shells
dropping softly 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
flound'ring 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 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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
The Sentry
We'd found an old Boche dug…out； and he knew； And gave us hell； for
shell on frantic shell Hammered on top； but never quite burst through。
Rain； guttering down in waterfalls of slime Kept slush waist high； that
rising hour by hour； Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb。
What murk of air remained stank old； and sour With fumes of whizz…bangs；
and the smell of men Who'd lived there years； and left their curse in the
den； If not their corpses。 。 。 。 There we herded from the blast Of whizz…
bangs； but one found our door at last。 Buffeting eyes and breath； snuffing
the candles。 And thud！ flump！ thud！ down the steep steps came thumping
And splashing in the flood； deluging muck The sentry's body； then his
rifle； handles Of old Boche bombs； and mud in ruck on ruck。 We dredged
him up； for killed； until he whined 〃O sir； my eyes I'm blind I'm blind；
I'm blind！〃 Coaxing； I held a flame against his lids And said if he could
see the least blurred light He was not blind； in time he'd get all right。 〃I
can't；〃 he sobbed。 Eyeballs； huge…bulged like squids Watch my dreams still；
but I forgot him there In posting next for duty； and sending a scout To beg
a stretcher somewhere； and floundering about To other posts under the
shrieking air。
Those other wretches； how they bled and spewed； And one who would
have drowned himself for good； I try not to remember these things now。
Let dread hark back for one word only： how Half…listening to that sentry's
moans and jumps； And the wild chattering of his broken teeth； Renewed
most horribly whenever crumps Pummelled the roof and slogged the air
beneath Through the dense din； I say； we heard him shout 〃I see your
lights！〃 But ours had long died out。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
The Dead…Beat
He dropped； more sullenly than wearily； Lay stupid like a cod；
heavy like meat； And none of us could kick him to his feet； Just blinked at
my revolver； blearily； Didn't appear to know a war was on； Or see the
blasted trench at which he stared。 〃I'll do 'em in；〃 he whined； 〃If this
hand's spared； I'll murder them； I will。〃
A low voice said； 〃It's Blighty； p'raps； he sees； his pluck's all gone；
Dreaming of all the valiant； that AREN'T dead： Bold uncles； smiling
ministerially； Maybe his brave young wife； getting her fun In some new
home； improved materially。 It's not these stiffs have crazed him； nor the
Hun。〃
We sent him down at last； out of the way。 Unwounded； stout lad； too；
before that strafe。 Malingering？ Stretcher…bearers winked； 〃Not half！〃
Next day I heard the Doc。's well…whiskied laugh： 〃That scum you sent last
night soon died。 Hooray！〃
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Exposure
I
Our brains ache； in the merciless iced east winds that knife us 。 。 。
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent 。 。 。 Low drooping
flares confuse our memory of the salient 。 。 。 Worried by silence； sentries
whisper； curious； nervous； But nothing happens。
Watching； we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire。 Like twitching
agonies of men among its brambles。 Northward incessantly； the flickering
gunnery rumbles； Far off； like a dull rumour of some other war。 What are
we doing here？
The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow 。 。 。 We only know war
lasts； rain soaks； and clouds sag stormy。 Dawn massing in the east her
melancholy army Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray；
But nothing happens。
Sudden successive