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Rh My hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and
 * observe.

I am the mashed fireman with breastbone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired—I heard the yelling
 * shouts of my comrades,

I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have cleared the beams away—they tenderly
 * lift me forth.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt—the pervading
 * hush is for my sake.

Painless after all I lie, exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me—the
 * heads are bared of their fire-caps,

The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the
 * torches.

Distant and dead resuscitate, They show as the dial or move as the hands of me—
 * I am the clock myself.

I am an old artillerist—I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again.

Again the reveille of drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, howitzers, Again the attacked send cannon responsive.

I take part—I see and hear the whole, The cries, curses, roar—the plaudits for well-aimed
 * shots,