That morning a spy brings news to Lee in his tent That the Union army has moved and is on the march. Lee calls back Ewell and Early from their forays And summons his host together by the crossroads Where Getty came with his ox-cart. So now we see These two crab-armies fumbling for each other, As if through a fog of rumor and false report, These last two days of sleepy, hay-harvest June. Hot June lying asleep on a shock of wheat Where the pollen-wind blows over the burnt-gold stubble And the thirsty men march past, stirring thick grey dust From the trodden pikes⁠—till at last, the crab-claws touch At Getty’s town, and clutch, and the peaches fall Cut by the bullets, splashing under the trees.