DULCE ET DECORUM EST BY WILFRED OWEN by

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 10:22:52 UTC

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 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,
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.

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 10:33:08 UTC

"My subject is War, and the pity of War",

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 10:34:21 UTC

- Owen wrote in a draft of the preface to his intended volume of poems. The collection was intended to explain the disgusting horror of war.

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 10:53:29 UTC

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 10:56:11 UTC

"Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge..."

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 19:31:26 UTC

The bodies of the soldier are twisted and contorted, making their experience seem completely different from the sorts of marching that we usually see in military parades. Here they're like "beggars" and "hags" – cast-off elements of society.

SUMMARY

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 19:39:00 UTC

It's just another day on the battlefields of World War I. As our speaker lets us know right away, however, "normal" isn't a word that has any meaning for the soldiers anymore. They're all mentally and physically ravaged by the exertions of battle.

And then it gets worse. Just as the men are heading home for the night, gas shells drop beside them. The soldiers scramble for their gas masks in a frantic attempt to save their own lives. Unfortunately, they don't all get to their masks in time. Our speaker watches as a member of his crew chokes and staggers in the toxic fumes, unable to save him from an excruciating certain death.

Now fast-forward. It's some time after the battle, but our speaker just can't get the sight of his dying comrade out of his head. The soldier's image is everywhere: in the speaker's thoughts, in his dreams, in his poetry. Worst of all, our speaker can't do anything to help the dying soldier.

Bitterly, the speaker finally addresses the people at home who rally around the youth of England, and urge them to fight for personal glory and national honor. He wonders how they can continue to call for war. If they could only witness the physical agony war creates – or even experience the emotional trauma that the speaker's going through now – the speaker thinks they might change their views. In the speaker's mind, there's noting glorious or honorable about death. Or, for that matter, war itself.

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 19:46:30 UTC

A STORY OF PATRIOTISM, SUFFERING AND WARFARE.

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 19:49:34 UTC

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 19:53:05 UTC

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 19:55:08 UTC

It is sweet and proper to die for one's country."

WILFRED OWEN

eleanorbp — 2013-04-05 20:33:33 UTC