III
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'm looking at their blistered feet; young JonesStares 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 bonesPuff their damp Woodbines, whistle, stretch their toesThey can still grin at me, for each of 'em knowsThat I'm as tired as they are ...Can they guessThe secret burden that is always mine?--Pride in their courage; pity for their distress;And burning bitternessThat I must take them to the accursed Line.
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