They came on to fish-hook Gettysburg in this way, after this fashion. Over hot pikes heavy with pollen, past fields where the wheat was high. Peaches grew in the orchards; it was a fertile country, Full of red barns and fresh springs and dun, deep-uddered kine.
A farmer lived with a clear stream that ran through his very house-room, They cooled the butter in it and the milk, in their wide, stone jars; A dusty Georgian came there, to eat and go on to battle; They dipped the milk from the jars, it was cold and sweet in his mouth.
He heard the clear stream’s music as the German housewife served him, Remembering the Shenandoah and a stream poured from a rock; He ate and drank and went on to the gunwheels crushing the harvest. It was a thing he remembered as long as any guns.