THE DREAM
On filthy straw they sit in the gloom, each face
Bowed to patched, sodden boots they must unlace,
While the wind chills their sweat through chinks and cracks.
III
I'm looking at their blistered feet; young Jones
Stares up at me, mud-splashed and white and jaded;
Out of his eyes the morning light has faded.
Old soldiers with three winters in their bones
Puff their damp Woodbines, whistle, stretch their toes:
They can still grin at me, for each of 'em knows
That I'm as tired as they are . . .
Can they guess
The secret burden that is always mine?—
Pride in their courage: pity for their distress;
And burning bitterness
That I must take them to the accursed Line.
IV
I cannot hear their voices, but I see
Dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea,
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