Arachne: A Literary Journal. No. 1
All day he stood at Weeping Cross,
While with its shot-ripped flags and battered train,
In full retreat and stunned by loss,
The army came back through the freezing rain.
Behind, the rearguard seemed to melt and drown,
As the gunsmoke curdled through the pass.
The slamming volleys switched the wet leaves down,
And scythed the dead upon the reddened grass.
Have done! Let none hereafter heed this cry
For the apostolic chivalry of time long past;
This prayer of all that smote the marble sky
Is least, and yet the proudest, for it is the last.