He touched a rent in his dirty sleeve, That was the place that the bullet tore From the blue-chinned picket whose belt he wore, The man who hadn’t been quick enough, And the powder-burn on the other cuff Belonged to the fight with the Yankee scout Who died in Irish when he went out. He thought of these things as a man might think Of certain trees by a river-brink, Seen in a flash from a passing train, And, before you could look at them, gone again. It was more important to eat and drink Than give the pain or suffer the pain And life was too rapid for memory.