You took a carriage to that battlefield. Now, I suppose, you take a motor-bus, But then, it was a carriage⁠—and you ate Fried chicken out of wrappings of waxed paper, While the slow guide buzzed on about the war And the enormous, curdled summer clouds Piled up like giant cream puffs in the blue. The carriage smelt of axle-grease and leather And the old horse nodded a sleepy head Adorned with a straw hat. His ears stuck through it. It was the middle of hay-fever summer And it was hot. And you could stand and look All the way down from Cemetery Ridge, Much as it was, except for monuments And startling groups of monumental men Bursting in bronze and marble from the ground, And all the curious names upon the gravestones.⁠ ⁠…