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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.
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime.
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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