In the 1990s, in the UK, my secondary school English teacher, who had Shakespearian actor vibes and wore dark tweed trousers and a plain white shirt—imagine Patrick Stewart if you may—brought this poem to life in my class by vividly reenacting a soldier dying from mustard gas poisoning by falling onto a desk and flailing about in front of the stunnned students sitting at it. I've never forgotten the closing line since.