He rides at their head; A crutch by his saddle just slants in view,
One slung arm in splints, you see, Yet he guides his strong steed — how coldly too. He brings his regiment home — Not as they filed two years before,
But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, and worn,
Like castaway sailors, who — stunned By the surf's loud roar, Their mates dragged back and seen no more —Again and again breast the surge, And at last crawl, spent, to shore. A still rigidity and pale — An Indian aloofness lines his brow;
He has lived a thousand
Compressed in battle's pains and prayers, Marches and watches slow.
There are welcoming shots, and flags; Old men off hat to the Boy,
Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet, But to him — there comes alloy. It is not that a leg is lost, It is not that an arm is maimed,
It is not that the fever has racked — Self he has long since disclaimed. But all through the Seven Days' Fight, And deep in the Wilderness grim,
And in the field-hospital tent, And Petersburg crater, and
Lean brooding in Libby, there came — Ah heaven! — what truth to him.
