So it runs for years until Jubal Early, riding, A long twelve months after Gettysburg’s high tide, Sees the steeples of Washington prick the blue June sky And the Northern king is threatened for the last time. But, by then, the end is too near, the cotton is withered, Now the game still hangs in the balance⁠—the cotton in bloom⁠— The shadows of the watchers long on the board. McClellan has moved his men from their camps at last In a great sally. There are many gates he can try. The Valley gate and the old Manassas way, But he has chosen to ferry his men by sea, To the ragged half-island between the York and the James And thrust up a long, slant arm from Fortress Monroe Northwest toward Richmond. The roads are sticky and soft, There are forts at Yorktown and unmapped rivers to cross. He has many more men than Johnston or John Magruder But the country hinders him, and he hinders himself By always thinking the odds on the other side