He rides at their head; <br />A crutch by his saddle just slants in view, <br />One slung arm in splints, you see, <br />Yet he guides his strong steed - how coldly too. <br /> <br />He brings his regiment home - <br />Not as they filed two years before, <br />But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, and worn, <br />Like castaway sailors, who - stunned <br />By the surf's loud roar, <br />Their mates dragged back and seen no more - <br />Again and again breast the surge, <br />And at last crawl, spent, to shore. <br /> <br />A still rigidity and pale - <br />An Indian aloofness lines his brow; <br />He has lived a thousand years <br />Compressed in battle's pains and prayers, <br />Marches and watches slow. <br /> <br />There are welcoming shots, and flags; <br />Old men off hat to the Boy, <br />Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet, <br />But to him - there comes alloy. <br /> <br />It is not that a leg is lost, <br />It is not that an arm is maimed, <br />It is not that the fever has racked - <br />Self he has long since disclaimed. <br /> <br />But all through the Seven Days' Fight, <br />And deep in the Wilderness grim, <br />And in the field-hospital tent, <br />And Petersburg crater, and dim <br />Lean brooding in Libby, there came - <br />Ah heaven! - what truth to him.<br /><br />Herman Melville<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-college-colonel/
