📝 Extracted Text:
Background: "Who's for the Game"
was written by the British poet Jessie
Pope (1868-1941). The poem was
first published in a U.K. newspaper in
1915, before signing up to fight in
World War I was made compulsory.
The poem asks its target audience—
young men—whether they are brave
enough to go and defend their
country through armed conflict.
Who's for the Game?
Who's for the game, the biggest that's played,
The red crashing game of a fight?
Who'll grip and tackle the job unafraid?
And who thinks he'd rather sit tight?
Who'll toe the line for the signal to 'Go!'?
Who'll give his country a hand?
Who wants a turn to himself in the show?
And who wants a seat in the stand?
Who knows it won't be a picnic – not much-
Yet eagerly shoulders a gun?
Who would much rather come back with a crutch
Than lie low and be out of the fun?
Come along, lads –
But you'll come on all right –
For there's only one course to pursue,
Your country is up to her neck in a fight,
And she's looking and calling for you.
Dulce et Decorum Est*
by Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our 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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped 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 flound'ring 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 a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: *Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.*
*How sweet and right it is to die for your country.
🇨🇳 提取文本：
背景：《谁来玩这场游戏？》由英国诗人杰西·波普（1868-1941）创作。这首诗于1915年在英国一家报纸上首次发表，当时参加第一次世界大战的兵役尚未强制执行。这首诗向其目标受众——年轻男性——提问，他们是否有足够的勇气通过武装冲突去保卫自己的国家。
**谁来玩这场游戏？**
谁来玩这场游戏，这场最盛大的游戏，
这场血腥激烈的战斗游戏？
谁会毫不畏惧地抓住并承担这项任务？
谁又宁愿安坐不动？
谁会站在起跑线上等待“冲锋！”的信号？
谁会为国家出一份力？
谁想在这场表演中独占一席？
谁又想坐在看台上？
谁知道这不会是野餐——一点也不轻松——
却仍渴望地扛起枪？
谁宁愿拄着拐杖回来
也不愿躲起来错过这场“乐趣”？
来吧，小伙子们——
你们会没事的——
因为只有一条路可走，
你的国家已深陷苦战，
她正在寻找并呼唤着你。
**《为国捐躯，甜美而光荣》***
作者：威尔弗雷德·欧文
弓着背，像麻袋下的老乞丐，
双膝内弯，像老巫婆般咳嗽，我们咒骂着穿过泥泞，
直到我们背对那阴魂不散的照明弹，
开始蹒跚走向我们遥远的安息之地。
士兵们睡着行军。许多人掉了鞋子，
却仍跛行着，血肉模糊的脚掌。所有人都瘸了；所有人都瞎了；
疲惫不堪；甚至听不见
疲惫、落后的五九式炮弹的呼啸声。
毒气！毒气！快，孩子们！——一阵狂乱的摸索，
笨拙地及时戴上头盔；
但仍有人在叫喊和跌跌撞撞，
像置身火中或石灰中的人一样挣扎……
透过模糊的玻璃和浓厚的绿光，
仿佛置身绿色的海底，我看见他正在溺毙。
在我所有的梦中，在我无助的眼前，
他向我扑来，奄奄一息，窒息，溺毙。
如果在某些令人窒息的梦中，你也能
跟在我们把他扔进去的马车后面，
看着他脸上扭曲的白色眼球，
他下垂的脸，像一个厌倦了罪恶的魔鬼；
如果你能听到，每一次颠簸，血液
从被泡沫腐蚀的肺部咕噜作响地涌出，
像癌症般恶心，像反刍的草料般苦涩
从无辜舌头上恶毒、无法治愈的溃疡中涌出——
我的朋友，你就不会如此热情洋溢地
对那些渴望某种绝望荣耀的孩子们，
讲述那个古老的谎言：*为国捐躯，甜美而光荣。*
*为国捐躯，何其甜美，何其正义。
