Wheatfield and orchard bloody and trampled and taken, And Hood’s tall Texans sweeping on toward the Round Tops As Hood fell wounded. On Little Round Top’s height Stands a lonely figure, seeing that rush come on⁠— Greek-mouthed Warren, Meade’s chief of engineers. —Sometimes, and in battle even, a moment comes When a man with eyes can see a dip in the scales And, so seeing, reverse a fortune. Warren has eyes And such a moment comes to him now. He turns —In a clear flash seeing the crests of the Round Tops taken, The grey artillery there and the battle lost⁠— And rides off hell-for-leather to gather troops And bring them up in the very nick of time, While the grey rush still advances, keening its cry. The crest is three times taken and then retaken In fierce wolf-flurries of combat, in gasping Iliads Too rapid to note or remember, too obscure to freeze in a song. But at last, when the round sun drops, when the nun-footed night, Dark-veiled walker, holding the first weak stars