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