He blew on his hands for the day was cold, And the damp, green wood gave little heat: There was something in him that matched the sleet And washed its hands in a rainy dream, Till the stirrup-strap and the horses’ steam And Shepley and Bristol behind his back, Playing piquet with a dog-eared pack And the hiss of the sap in the smoky wood Mixed for a moment in something good, Something outside of peace or war Or a fair girl wearing a silver star, Something hardly as vain as pride And gaunt as the men he rode beside. It made no comments but it was there, Real as the color of Lucy’s hair Or the taste of Henry Weatherby’s wine. He thought “These people are friends of mine. And we certainly fooled the Yanks last week, When we caught those wagons at Boiling Creek, I guess we’re not such a bad patrol If we never get straight with the muster-roll, I guess, next Spring, we can do it again⁠—”