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Rh 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 Day's 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.