He wants to lead a last desperate charge himself, But he is restrained. The sullen army draws back, Licking its wounds. The night falls. The newspapers rave. There are sixty-three hundred dead in that doomed attack That never should have been made. His shoulders are bowed. He tries a vain march in the mud and resigns at last The weapon he could not wield. Joe Hooker succeeds him. The winter clamps down, cold winter of doubt and grief.

The sun shines, the wind goes by, The prisoners and captives lie In a cell without an eye.

Winter will not touch them more Than the cold upon a sore That was frozen long before.