He Rides At Their Head; A Crutch By His Saddle Just Slants In View, One Slung Arm Is In Splints, You See, Yet He Guides His Strong Steed--How Coldly Too. He Brings His Regiment Home-- Not As They Filed Two Years Before, But A Remnant Half-Tattered, And Battered, And Worn, Like Castaway Sailors, Who--Stunned By The Surf'S Loud Roar, Their Mates Dragged Back And Seen No More-- Again And Again Breast The Surge, And At Last Crawl, Spent, To Shore. A Still Rigidity And Pale-- An Indian Aloofness Lones His Brow; He Has Lived A Thousand Years Compressed In Battle'S Pains And Prayers, Marches And Watches Slow. There Are Welcoming Shouts, And Flags; Old Men Off Hat To The Boy, Wreaths From Gay Balconies Fall At His Feet, But To Him--There Comes Alloy. It Is Not That A Leg Is Lost, It Is Not That An Arm Is Maimed, It Is Not That The Fever Has Racked-- Self He Has Long Disclaimed. But All Through The Seven Days' Fight, And Deep In The Wilderness Grim, And In The Field-Hospital Tent, And Petersburg Crater, And Dim Lean Brooding In Libby, There Came-- Ah Heaven!--What Truth To Him.