I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; and caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; and buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; and rusted every bayonet with His tears.

The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.

The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.

I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; and caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; and buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; and rusted every bayonet with His tears.

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.