There are 4 replies in this Thread which was already clicked 597 times. The last Post () by Rice.

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    Aged 11 and standing on the school stage, I had to read this incredibly powerful Dylan Thomas poem to the entire school, not knowing at the time to what the famous poet was referring.

    I think I do now and he was only 25 when he wrote it.

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    This poem by Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) still gives me the chills. He was 25 when he wrote it in the trenches of the First World War.


    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,


    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.