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.