Dulce Et decorum estDulce Et decorum estBy Wilfred OwenBy Wilfred Owen

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines that

dropped 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.

‘‘Tis Better to GiveTis Better to GiveBY Sarah ShepardBY Sarah Shepard

Bent double, straining under heavy sacks, Tired, panting like dogs, we cursed through the halls, Till on the red tag sales we turned our backs And towards our distant sale our names call. Women marched asleep. Many had lost their minds

But carried on, desperate. All determined a sale to find; Drunk with cheap wine; deaf even to the cries Of disappointed kids who screamed behind.

Sale! Sale! Quick Girls -- a frenzy of shoving, Reaching the sale rack just in time;

But someone was still yelling out and pushing And jabbing like a woman in labor or grime.– Barely through the flailing hands and thick-legged women As behind a rockslide, I saw her missing out.

In all my dreams, before my greedy sight, She turns from me, cursing, plotting, leaving.

If in some sugar plum dreams you too could race Up to the counter that we flung the clothes on And watch her blue eyes tearing on her face,

Our happy faces, not noticing she was gone; If you could hear at every register, the cash Come flying from the almost empty purse,

Bare as a desert, gone like a flash Of light, pieces of paper too quick to disperse,-- My dear, you would not tell to try to relive To eager children on Christmas eve,

The old lie: Tis better to give Than to receive.

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