Is there a better artistic expression of death's myriad manifestations than Shakespeare's Hamlet? I say no. In my counter-factual universe I see William Shakespeare as a Lieutenant at the First Somme. Imagine the war poetry that Shakespeare could have written. Perhaps one such war sonnet would have gone something like this:

My subaltern’s eyes will ne’er again see the sun,
Exposed hearts are more red than whores lips are red;
If we go o’er the top we are sure to face the gun;
And those caught on wires are things better off dead.

I have seen bodies gouged open, red and white,
And from froth-corrupted lungs seen gas leak;
The scent of naturally rotting flesh gives more delight
Than the breath of vesicant that from blisters reeks.

I loathe the whine of 5-9s we needs all must know
Dying screams hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I ne’er saw an unworthy boy go;
My subaltern when he dies rots on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my loss as rare
As all the missing and dead I blench to compare.

There is a scene in Act IV, rarely presented on-stage, wherein Hamlet looks upon Young Fortinbras' forces and feels guilt over his own concerns compared with the concerns of the men who go to die: "...to my shame I see / The immanent death of twenty thousand men / That for a fantasy and a trick of fame / Go to their graves like beds..." (IV.iv.59-62). Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori, indeed.