Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines (shells)
that dropped behing.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--an ecstasy
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out
And flound' ring like a man in fire of lime....
Dim, through the misty panes and thick
As under a green sea, I saw him drowining.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,
In Owen's poem, what do they do?