War poetry obviously appeals to me, and Wilfred Owen wrote many while serving with the British Army at the front during World War I before he was killed, not long before the armistice ended that long, bloody war.
"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 gas shells dropping softly behind."
Obviously, too, as with the concluding line in Latin translated, it is NOT sweet and fitting to die for one's country.
"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 gas shells dropping softly behind."
Obviously, too, as with the concluding line in Latin translated, it is NOT sweet and fitting to die for one's country.
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