P2+Poetry++Literature+of+the+War




 * “In Flanders Fields” was written by Lieutenant colonel John Alexander McCrea on May 3, 1915 after he witnessed the death of his friend Lt. Alexis Helmer the day before. This poem is to honor the deaths of thousands of young men who died in Flanders during the in world war I. Legend has it that he was inspired by seeing the blood-red poppies blooming in the fields where many friends had died. In 1918 McCrae died at the age of 46, he died from pneumonia. **

In Flanders fields the poppies blow //**
 * //Between the crosses, row on row//**,
 * //That mark our place; and in the sky//**
 * //The larks, still bravely singing, fly//**
 * //Scarce heard amid the guns below//**.
 * // We are the Dead. Short days ago //**
 * //We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow//**,
 * //Loved, and were loved, and now we lie//**
 * //In Flanders fields//**.
 * // Take up our quarrel with the foe //** :
 * //To you from failing hands we throw//**
 * //The torch; be yours to hold it high//**.
 * //If ye break faith with us who die//**
 * //We shall not sleep, though poppies grow//**
 * //In Flanders fields//**.


 * This poem was written by a British poet and World War I soldier** **Wilfred Owen** **in 1917, and was published in 1920. Owen's poem is known for its horror. It tells a group of soldiers in World War I, forced to walk through sludge, marching slowly away from the falling explosive shells behind them, to a place of rest. As gas shells begin to fall on them, the soldiers try to put on their gas masks to protect themselves.**

"Dulce et Decorum est" 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 disappointed shells 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 floundering 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.