Was it for this the clay grew tall?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.

Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.

All a poet can do today is warn.

Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.

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.