• Research Paper on:
    Analysis of 'Dulce et Decorum Est' by Wilfred Owen

    Number of Pages: 8

     

    Summary of the research paper:

    In eight pages this textual analysis considers how poetic meaning is conveyed through verb description, imagery, metaphors, similes, alliteration, hyperboles, and heroic diction. There are no other sources listed.

    Name of Research Paper File: TG15_TGdulce.rtf

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    Unformatted Sample Text from the Research Paper:
    This is certainly true in the case of Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), a devout Christian who had an affinity for poetic prose. After much soul-searching, Owen decided to enlist in  World War I, a choice that would forever alter his lifes course. The sights and sounds of war left their indelible imprint on Owen, and while hospitalized, he began  experiencing the unmistakable symptoms of shell shock, horrific nightmares. This anguish inspired Owen what is arguably the most moving war poetry of all time. Unfortunately, Wilfred Owen was  killed in action, ironically, one week before the wars end, but his poetic masterpiece, "Dulce et Decorum Est," survives as a testament not only to Owens artistry, but immortalizes the  suffering of any man who has ever served in combat. In this, one of his last poems, Owen wrote, Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like  hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned out 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 gas-shells dropping softly 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 floundring 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 

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