PoemIf 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.Wilfred OwenDulce et Decorum Est · 1920★ 6.0
PoemThe shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires.Wilfred Owen1917★ 1.8
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