#### 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 accursèd Line.

#### IV

I cannot hear their voices, but I see

Dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea,

And soon they’ll sleep like logs. Ten miles away

The battle winks and thuds in blundering strife.

And I must lead them nearer, day by day,

To the foul beast of war that bludgeons life.

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