“But the old man would not so, but slew his son,And half the seed of Europe, one by one.”

“Behold,A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.But the old man would not so, but slew his son,And half the seed of Europe, one by one”

“And in his eyesThe cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,In different skies.”

“Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.We laughed, — knowing that better men would come,And greater wars: when each proud fighter bragsHe wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.”

“If in some smothering dreams you too could paceBehind 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 bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.”

“If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungsObscene as cancer, bitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate gloryThat old lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.”

“The old Lie:Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.”