Wilfred Owen

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Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
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Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
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Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
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Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
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But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
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And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
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Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
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As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
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In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
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He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
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If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
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Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
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And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
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His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
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If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
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Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
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Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
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Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
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My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
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To children ardent for some desperate glory,
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The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
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Pro patria mori.
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Card 2

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Back

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Card 3

Front

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Back

Preview of the back of card 3

Card 4

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Back

Preview of the back of card 4

Card 5

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