He stared at the clock where Phaëton’s horses lunged With a queer nod of recognition. The rest had altered, People and winter and nightmares and Ellen Baker, Or stayed in a good dimension that he had lost, But Phaëton was the same. He said to himself, “I have met you twice, old, drunken charioteer, Once in the woods, and once in a dirty shack Where Death was a coin of spittle left on the floor. I suppose we will meet again before there’s an end, Well, let it happen. It must have been cold last year At Fredericksburg. I’m glad I wasn’t in that. Melora, what’s happened to you?” He saw Melora Walking down from the woods in the low spring light. His body hurt for a minute, but then it stopped. He was getting well. He’d have to go back pretty soon. He grinned, a little dryly, thinking of chance, Father had seen the congressman after all, Just before Shiloh. So now, nearly ten months later, The curious wheels that are moved by such congressmen Were sending him back to the Army of the Potomac, Back with the old company, back with the Eastern voices,