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

215.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.

216.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.

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

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

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

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