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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536280" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Sentry</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,<br>And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell<br>Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.<br>Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime<br>Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour,<br>Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb.<br>What murk of air remained stank old, and sour<br>With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men<br>Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,<br>If not their corpses. . . .<br>  There we herded from the blast<br>Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last.<br>Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles.<br>And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping<br>And splashing in the flood, deluging muck --<br>The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles<br>Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.<br>We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined<br>&quot;O sir, my eyes -- I'm blind -- I'm blind, I'm blind!&quot;<br>Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids<br>And said if he could see the least blurred light<br>He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.<br>&quot;I can't,&quot; he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids<br>Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there<br>In posting next for duty, and sending a scout<br>To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about<br>To other posts under the shrieking air. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,<br>And one who would have drowned himself for good, --<br>I try not to remember these things now.<br>Let dread hark back for one word only: how<br>Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,<br>And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,<br>Renewed most horribly whenever crumps<br>Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath --<br>Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout<br>&quot;I see your lights!&quot; But ours had long died out.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wilfred+Owen">Wilfred Owen</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536280" data-title="The Sentry de Wilfred Owen" data-description="We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime
Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour,
Choked up the s..."></div>
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