Home
Forums
New posts
Search forums
What's new
New posts
Latest activity
Members
Current visitors
Log in
Register
What's new
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
New posts
Search forums
Menu
Log in
Register
Install the app
Install
Home
Forums
Brown Cafe Community Center
Current Events
Memorial Day & Weekend
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Reply to thread
Message
<blockquote data-quote="Jones" data-source="post: 90926" data-attributes="member: 4805"><p>That's always been one of my favorite poems. It's Ypres, by the way, not "Apres". It's my understanding that John Mcrae wrote that poem upon learning of the death of one of his closest friends. The First World War was horrific and much of the slaughter was pretty senseless. Wilfred Owen was another poet who, like John Mcrae, did not survive the war. They both died in 1918.</p><p></p><p><em> Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,</em></p><p><em>Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,</em></p><p><em>Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs</em></p><p><em>And towards our distant rest began to trudge.</em></p><p><em>Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots</em></p><p><em>But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;</em></p><p><em>Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots</em></p><p><em>Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p></p><p><em> Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling,</em></p><p><em>Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;</em></p><p><em>But someone still was yelling out and stumbling</em></p><p><em>And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .</em></p><p><em>Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,</em></p><p><em>As under I green sea, I saw him drowning.</em></p><p><em>In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,</em></p><p><em>He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p></p><p><em> If in some smothering dreams you too could pace</em></p><p><em>Behind the wagon that we flung him in,</em></p><p><em>And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,</em></p><p><em>His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;</em></p><p><em>If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood</em></p><p><em>Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,</em></p><p><em>Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud</em></p><p><em>Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --</em></p><p><em>My friend, you would not tell with such high zest</em></p><p><em>To children ardent for some desperate glory,</em></p><p><em>The old lie: Dulce et decorum est</em></p><p><em>Pro patria mori.</em></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>By: Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Jones, post: 90926, member: 4805"] That's always been one of my favorite poems. It's Ypres, by the way, not "Apres". It's my understanding that John Mcrae wrote that poem upon learning of the death of one of his closest friends. The First World War was horrific and much of the slaughter was pretty senseless. Wilfred Owen was another poet who, like John Mcrae, did not survive the war. They both died in 1918. [I] 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. [/I] [I] 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 I green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. [/I] [I] 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.[/I] By: Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) [/QUOTE]
Insert quotes…
Verification
Post reply
Home
Forums
Brown Cafe Community Center
Current Events
Memorial Day & Weekend
Top