I speak? Thoughts knot w

Kitamura peppy at spm.org.uk
Wed Aug 19 21:22:51 BST 2009

Y held before, And then on Grant. He marks their mood, And hails it, and
will turn the same to good. Spite all that they have undergone, Their
desperate hearts are set upon This winter fort, this stubborn fort, This
castle of the last resort, This Donelson. 1 P.M. An order given Requires
withdrawal from the front Of regiments that bore the brunt Of morning's
fray. Their ranks all riven Are being replaced by fresh, strong men.
Great vigilance in the foeman's Den; He snuffs the stormers. Need it is
That for that fell assault of his, That rout inflicted, and self-scorn--
Immoderate in noble natures, torn By sense of being through slackness
overborne-- The rebel be given a quick return: The kindest face looks
now half stern. Balked of their prey in airs that freeze, Some fierce
ones glare like savages. And yet, and yet, strange moments are--
Well--blood, and tears, and anguished War! The morning's battle-ground
is seen In lifted glades, like meadows rare; The blood-drops on the
snow-crust there Like clover in the white-week show-- Flushed fields of
death, that call again-- Call to our men, and not in vain, For that way
must the stormers go. 3 P.M. The work begins. Light drifts of men thrown
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