Chapter 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.