We wander now who marched before, Hawking our bran from door to door, While other men from the mill take their flour: So it is to be an old soldier. Old, bare and sore, we look on the hound Turning upon the stiff frozen ground, Nosing the mould, with the night around: So it is to be an old soldier. And we who once rang out like a bell, Have nothing now to show to to sell; Old bones to carry, old stories to tell: So it is to be an old soldier. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LADY POVERTY by ALICE MEYNELL THE LORDS OF THE MAIN by JOSEPH STANSBURY COMMUNION by DOROTHY P. ALBAUGH QUATORZAINS: 9. TO MY LYRE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 15 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |