Malcolm Cowley

From “Three Portraits”

YOU marched off southward with the fire of twenty,

Proud of the uniform that you were wearing.

The girls made love to you, and that was plenty;

The drums were beating and the horns were blaring.

From town to town you fought, and bridge to bridge,

Thinking: “So this is Life; so this is Real.”

And when you swept up Missionary Ridge,

Laughing at death, you were your own ideal.

But when you limped home, wounded and unsteady,

You found the world was new to you; your clutch

On life had slipped, and you were old already.

So who can blame you if you drink too much,

Or boast about your pride when no one sees,

Or mumble petulant inanities?