[78-L] The Old Lie [fwd]

[Taylor Bowie]

I didn't receive the post...are you sure it was even sent to 78-L?

Taylor


----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Mike Harkin" <xxm.harkin at yahoo.com>
To: "John Duffy" <johnduffy at dybb.com>
Cc: <78-l at klickitat.78online.com>
Sent: Saturday, July 16, 2011 10:54 PM
Subject: Re: [78-L] The Old Lie [fwd]


What has this got to do with anything?!  Please spare us the non-78 
rmablings.

Mike in Plovdiv

--- On Sat, 7/16/11, John Duffy <johnduffy at dybb.com> wrote:

> From: John Duffy <johnduffy at dybb.com>
> Subject: The Old Lie
> To: "Donald  F. Scholz, Ph.D." <dscholz at allegiance.tv>, "James M. Chastek" 
> <jamesmchastek at gmail.com>, "Dan Doherty" <ddohert at opencominc.com>, "Alexis 
> Panselinos" <panselinos at freemail.gr>
> Cc: "Char Roufas" <ceefa at mm.st>, "David Patrick Stearns" 
> <mrlegato at cs.com>, "Jörgen Lundmark" <torgny.lundmark at mypost.se>, "John 
> Debee" <jdebee at yahoo.com>, "Mary Jo Lux" <luxhaven at crosslink.net>
> Date: Saturday, July 16, 2011, 9:56 PM
>
> Dulce et Decorum Est
>
> 1 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
> 2 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through
> sludge,
> 3 Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
> 4 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
> 5 Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
> 6 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
> 7 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
> 8 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
>
> 9 Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
> 10 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
> 11 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
> 12 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
> 13 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
> 14 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
>
> 15 In all my dreams before my helpless sight
> 16 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
>
> 17 If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
> 18 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
> 19 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
> 20 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
> 21 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
> 22 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
> 23 Bitter as the cud
> 24 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
> 25 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
> 26 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
> 27 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
> 28 Pro patria mori.
>
> Wilfred Owen
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