Splendors that melt like stars in the milkwhite highway of heaven,
Fame without name, and the deeds remembered of doers forgotten.
Two strange days were done; for Fate on the echoing anvil,
Clashing with blow upon blow, had fashioned a strength out of failure,
Craftily forging in fire and clangor the Line of the Union,
Battle-line hard to break. It was curved like the hook of the fisher,
Rough Culp’s Hill the barb, and the Hill of the Graves was the curving;
Straight as a shaft it stretched to the tawny stream at the southward,—
Running then red,—and the rocks of the rude-piled Den of the Devil,
Round-Top the Less, and the flank of the Greater, fledged with the forest,