The two flags planted together, one instant, like hostile flowers. Then the smoke wrapped both in a mantle⁠—and when it had blown away, Armistead lay in his blood, and the rest were dead or down, And the valley grey with the fallen and the wreck of the broken wave.

Pickett gazed around him, the boy who had dreamt of a sword And talked with a man named Lincoln. The sword was still in his hand. He had gone out with fifteen thousand. He came back to his lines with five. He fought well till the war was over, but a thing was cracked in his heart.